


The Rites of Spring

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Angst and Humor, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Festivals, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Rewrite, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4620774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Springtime is in the air, and the Labyrinthian festival celebrating the coming of the season is the catalyst needed to bring together the town's two most stubborn ex-Inquisitors. [Under temporary rewrite]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Talisman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note 7-24-17: 
> 
> I had to transfer this story to Word from Open Office (for my own sanity). I lost my notes on this story when my hard drive crashed, so it’s been a little hard trying to write for it. I’m tweaking dialogue and setting as I transfer it over, so things might be a little different when you read/reread! Please be patient with me! 
> 
> Author’s Note: Well, for once it’s not Hellsing. Surprise, surprise. :D 
> 
> While playing this game, I couldn’t help but feel that Darklaw and her subordinate had something going on behind the scenes (after all, throwing him in the dungeon for high treason was clearly a declaration of love).  
> But then the special episodes sealed my suspicions when Eve turned the Story into a fanfiction and Barnham managed to stand for an hour being socially awkward on her birthday. The fact that she stood with him for that hour only cements their relationship, ha-ha. Take note kids—in Labyrinthia romance has no place on the battlefield, but apparently lumpy pastries do.

            Zacharias Barnham woke with a curse on his lips and pleasure coursing through his veins. After jerking to a sitting position and realizing where he was, he fell back to his thin cot with a heavy sigh. On mornings like this, he wished that there were no duties to fulfill, no work to keep him from taking even a scant ten minutes to find some relief.

            But he could already here his taskmistress bustling about one story below, preparing for the day’s tasks even though ‘day’ had not yet arrived. It was time to rise. He looked blearily out of the small window that sat in the thin strip of plaster between his bedstead and the sloping edge of the roof, taking care not to bump his head as he opened the shutters. The thin light of pre-dawn cast the world in shades of muted color, a crisp blast of fresh air bringing goosebumps over his arms.  A few resilient stars still twinkled above the thin, sparse clouds.

            Rubbing his forehead, he grunted sleepily and threw back the heavy bedclothes. Rolling out of bed, he thumped across the cold floorboards and knelt to pull his underclothes from the oaken trunk that held the majority of his worldly possessions. He yanked the sleeping pants from his hips, letting them pool around his ankles before stepping out of them with a yawn. He had to take care to keep his head from colliding with the low beams in the room; his personal space was little more than an alcove, but it suited his purposes and he never spent long hours in it unless ill. And it wasn’t fair to complain, since the Mrs. Eclaire had opened her home to him when he had nowhere else to go.

            He stood naked in the morning air, fighting the discomfort as he waited for his body to behave itself and get under control. It was harder than usual, for the last remnants of the unwanted dream still floating around in his mind. It had been…delicious and pleasurable, even forbidden. But there was no joy in the thought, only chastisement.

            A knight, especially the former Inquisitor and Head of Knights, should not be giving into the temptation of easy, _indecent_ flights of fancy, even in dreams.  That’s why the majority of them were younger—it was encouraged, though not enforced, that they were to remain abstinent and unmarried while in service to the garrison. Their minds and bodies were weapons, sharpened to a razor edge against witches and all the filth that roamed the shadowy alleys of their beloved town. It would not do to dull them with wild fantasies and dreaming.

            The dream _itself_ wasn’t the troubling thing, he thought as he finally allowed himself to dress. His mind turned while his hands performed the motions automatically, first with the long tunic and breeches, then the expertly polished armor. He’d had those sorts of dreams since his teenage years. Even the most well-trained mind lapsed now and again; it was natural and expected, though to dwell unnecessarily on the fact would be where one might err. It was the contents of the dream—no, the _woman_ in the dream, that had him concerned. If it had been a stranger, an unknown face, then he wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. But he _knew_ that person.

            He walked back to his cot, shooing Constantine from the foot so that he could properly pull the bedclothes over the strawtick and tuck in the corners until the whole bed was military-tight with nary a wrinkle in sight. He fluffed the goose feather pillow and placed it properly at a right angle to the headboard, as he had been taught to do in the garrison.

The wind was lessening, the cold air of morning holding the promise of a balmy, pleasant day. He took a moment to press his knee to the cot and lean out the window once more, breathing the air deeply to help clear the last of the cobwebs from his sleep-addled mind. The street below was empty save for Ms. Mailer, who ducked around parked carts and hopped across gutters in her haste. She mumbled to herself as she hurried, her bag full to bursting as always. She didn’t seem to notice him as he hung halfway out the window and watched her head around the bend, towards the rustling treetops of the Eldwitch Woods.

He looked at the wood just visible beyond the mist and the town gates, rising just higher than the rooftops. His heart clenched as his dream came back again, taking advantage of the lull in his normally ironclad thinking. _Eve…._ He shook his head roughly, nearly slamming the sash down before running a hand through his messy hair. _This mustn’t go on!_ he told himself firmly, taking a deep breath to center himself. Constantine jumped back on the bed, stretching his limbs with a cute yawn before bumbling onto the soft expanse of his master’s breeches between the faulds and the cuisses.

“Ah, my little friend,” he murmured, carefully running his fingers over the smooth fur between the pup’s ears. “If only you could speak. Then I might ask you for some advice, knight to knight.” Constantine rolled over, looking up at him with warm eyes and panting happily. “Come, let’s get you ready for battle.” He took the custom armor from its place near the bedstead and looked it over to make sure that he hadn’t missed any dirt from its nightly cleaning. After a moment, the dog’s head and torso were clad in the toy armor that looked either adorable or fierce, depending on Constantine’s mood. “There. Now you are a proper soldier.”

He opened the door, Constantine bounding ahead and nearly missing the stairs in his hurry, nails scrabbling on the wood as he went in search of his breakfast. He walked across the landing, passing the linen closet, Espella’s room, and Mrs. Eclaire’s room before reaching the privy at the other end of the narrow hall. He reached for the door, but before he could turn the knob it opened to reveal Patty’s younger charge.

“G’morning, Sir Barnham.” Espella stumbled groggily as she passed, one hand still rubbing at her eyelids. She was always this way before breakfast, and he was never sure if she even heard him respond in kind on her way to the stairs. Closing the door as he stepped into the little room, he prepared his own daily hygiene routine. It took almost as long as either of the women to brush his teeth and hair, scrub his face and neck, and shave the night’s stubble away. Thankfully, Mrs. Eclaire had been one of the first houses to get indoor plumbing, and he didn’t need to worry about wasting valuable water when rinsing. Plus, hot water on a cool morning was a luxury he was loath to part with, now that he knew it.

Finally, he patted everything down into place and looked in the mirror to make sure he was at the least _decent_. He knew many of the people in town thought him to be handsome, but he never found much worth looking at in his own face. It was symmetrical enough, his skin smooth and without blemish, but his nose was leaning towards the large side and the scar on his forehead left his face wanting, if he was to voice his own opinion. Not to mention the red hair, which others called an asset, though he didn’t like it very much. It was far too easy to make jokes about a ‘hot head’ when one had both a short temper and fiery locks.

Descending the creaking stairs to the lower floor, he went through the squeaky door separating the staircase from the shop and found a warm, happy room. Espella was eating a buttered croissant slowly, her eyes vacant with daydreams as she stared unseeingly out the open door. Mrs. Eclaire, however, hurried around the room with more urgency than he’d seen from her in a long while, gathering baskets and wicker boxes and even the old wooden milk pail.

“Oh, there you are.” Mrs. Eclaire stopped long enough to address him, a thin sheen of sweat visible on her doughy face. “Zacharias, I’ve got to go to town,” she announced, throwing a knitted shawl over her shoulders to protect from the chill. “I’ve got to get there before the crowds come, so I need you and Espella to mind the shop,” she explained breathlessly, pilling her arms with as many baskets as she could hold.

“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t understand the hurry, but she was the baker and he the apprentice.

“While I’m gone, make the dough for hot buns. About three dozen should do to start. Now hurry, but don’t _rush_ them,” she added, her hand pressing the air as if she could make him slow down beforehand. “Do them as I showed you, only don’t dally.” He couldn’t help the look of surprise that passed over his features.

“So many?” he asked hesitantly, not wanting to sound impertinent. She laughed as she overturned a basket, Eve-the-cat spilling out with a squeaky mew of surprise and landing on her feet before taking off to hide under the hem of Espella’s cloak.

“Have you forgotten the date?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye. “Tomorrow’s the Spring Festival. Work hard today, have fun tomorrow,” she chided playfully, wagging a finger at him before nearly loosing the baskets in the crook of her arm. She turned to leave, speaking over her shoulder. “Espella, be a dear and help Sir Barnham with the dough. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Mm… yes, Aunt Patty.” Espella stuffed the rest of the croissant in her mouth, stretching her arms over her head and twisting her neck. Barnham picked out a sweet roll from the day-old shelf, eating quickly he stoked the fire to life. Meanwhile, Espella began gathering ingredients from the cellar, pulling out bowls and utensils as she measured and began to mix, her sleeves pushed well back over her elbows.

When the fire was blazing, the bakery heating to almost uncomfortable temperatures, Barnham took the dough Espella had finished and began pounding it into submission while she began a new bowlful. Then he placed it aside to rise, just as she was through with the second batch. It was time-consuming, mind-numbing work, but it was what he needed. Focusing all his energy into the dough in order to please Mrs. Eclaire meant that he had no spare time to think over the dream, or even worse—it’s implications.

They worked in companionable silence as the morning marched on, each taking a private pleasure in the fact that the bakery was closed to customers. It would have been hard to make so many hot buns if they kept having to stop and help, and most of the other citizens were busy enough with pre-festival activities that they had no time to worry about something so trivial as bread (though no one would dare voice such an opinion aloud within hearing distance of Patty Eclaire).

When the baker returned, Espella had just finished washing the bowls of messy dough and Barnham was turning the last few browned rolls over onto a metal rack to cool. Both were sweating profusely in the heat of the shop, Espella’s hands red from the soapy water and Barnham’s armor covered in bits of dough and flour. Mrs. Eclaire allowed them a short break from the oven, taking over while they carried the groceries to the cellar. The underground room was not as warm and even quieter than upstairs; they both stopped and enjoyed the reprieve for a quick moment before performing their next chore.

“Are you excited for the Festival, Sir Barnham?” Espella asked as she handed vegetables to him out of the baskets. He stood precariously on the very top of a wobbling stepladder, placing the sun warmed vegetables on the wooden shelves. They’d last longer in such a cool, dry place.

“A knight has no time for excitement. It clouds judgment on the battlefield.” His voice was solemn as he made sure the eggplants and tomatoes wouldn’t roll over the shelves, their straight lines marching evenly. “However… I am thankful for a day of rest,” he admitted after a moment’s thought. “For a healthy body, having rest is just as crucial as exercise.” To others, the distant, clipped tone might have been offensive. But Espella had grown used to his aloof nature and didn’t think twice about the military outlook on life.

“I’m excited,” she responded cheerfully, her fingers tracing the braid on a rope of peppers. “Dad commissioned the tailor to make Eve and I matching dresses. I wanted white, but she wanted black, and we settled on gray in the end since it’s between the two,” she prattled on, absently handing him the rope instead of the cucumbers he’d been expecting. “I can’t wait to see them in person. The design was so lovely on paper, and even in the fittings Ms. Tailor wouldn’t let us see the finished cloth.”

“I—I did not know that Miss Eve would be in attendance,” he stammered, his heart fluttering wildly at the thought of Espella’s dark-haired friend. _I **must** stop this! _he thought frantically, nearly falling from the ladder in his panic. _Romance has no place on the battlefield; how many times must I repeat these words?!_ “She has… er, she has never done so before.” Storyteller be thanked, that the dark of the cellar hid the brunt of his struggles from the man’s oblivious daughter! He didn’t think he could explain himself to her, not without looking like a fool.

“Oh, she’s so stubborn,” Espella blurted in exasperation, nearly throttling the string of peppers. She let him take it and hang it from the beams, stepping back to let him descend the ladder. “She’s always making excuses. Dad says its because she’s so shy, and I’m worried I might have to force her hand!” She put out a hand to steady the ladder when it caught a divot in the earthen floor and nearly toppled.

“If—” He paused, unsure if it was proper to condone the actions of the Storyteller’s daughter now that she was ultimately _not_ a witch. “If Miss Eve does not wish to go—that is, if she does not enjoy festivals, ‘tis more courteous to let her stay at home, is it not?” She sighed, frowning.

“That’s just it!” Espella handed him the milk pail and he placed it in the corner, covering it from mice with cheesecloth. “She loves festivals. It’s just the crowd that she hates.” Now it was his turn to frown. He’d seen the woman in question stand unflinching in front of the entire town on countless occasions. Did she mean to say that every time, the High Inquisitor had secretly been shaking in her boots from nerves? _He’d_ never seen her shy or scared in front of the denizens of Labyrinthia—quite the opposite. In fact, he’d always admired her ability to remain composed in the public eye.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Espella said, seeing the reflection of his doubt in the light from the upper floor. “But when she puts on those clothes, she becomes… a different person. It’s like the clothes are her personality or something.” She thought a moment. “Well, it’s true that clothes can give you confidence. Maybe it’s just more potent in her.”

Barnham understood—he felt the same way, in a sense. Whenever he wore his armor, he felt as if he were suiting up for battle. His metal raiment was a protective structure, and while he was inside any sort of blow would have no effect on his person. It gave him the confidence to do things he wouldn’t normally do, like bake bread or (he remembered with a hint of embarrassment) give a substandard pastry as a gift.

“’Tis a sound argument,” he agreed slowly, taking extra time with the milk so that he could school his face into a more neutral expression. She stared at him, but if she saw anything amiss she didn’t remark on it as they made their way up to the bakery. After the cool darkness of the cellar, the bakery was utterly stifling and it was hard for him to argue against going to change into less… metallic clothing. But perseverance was a key factor in a knight’s training, and he was a _man_ , was he not? Only a weak pageboy would dare admit that the armor was too heavy and too hot for something as paltry as a spring workday.

Mrs. Eclaire was waiting on them with more work, and despite having worked in the bakery for many months he was still caught off-guard by the sheer amount of things he didn’t know how to do. Under Patty’s tutelage, he toiled over spiced cakes, gritted his teeth at pounding sugar into a fine powder, and grunted with effort as he tried to make his large, clumsy fingers shape delicate petals from itty-bitty pieces of dough. He was so busy that he didn’t have time to dwell on his thoughts, or the startling revelation that the former High Inquisitor would be at the Spring Festival.

He certainly had a new appreciation for the vendors that harked their wares on holidays.

They were only allowed to stop work at the noontime meal. Barnham sat in the chair, his legs aching from squatting before the oven and his elbow throbbing as though he were still working the sugar with a pestle. He wanted nothing more than to tear off the armor and douse himself with cold water until he couldn’t feel the sweat dripping down his back, but he merely took several deep breaths and pushed the errant thoughts from his head. Mrs. Eclaire was right: the time for rest would be tomorrow. He still had an afternoon’s work ahead of him. 

Espella visibly wilted, slumping down in her seat until her cheek rested against the cool, smooth wood of their dining table. Her arms spread across it until he could have touched her fingertips without moving a muscle, her blonde braids spilling across the back of her cloak.

“ _Cor_ , I’m so tired,” she groaned listlessly. “How did you ever do it by yourself, Aunt Patty?”

“I can’t say,” the woman replied, as jolly as ever despite her cheeks reddened from the heat and her apron stained with both food and perspiration. She put a light lunch before them: sandwiches on toast and ginger water. Espella gulped her drink eagerly, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. He sipped his more leisurely, enjoying the tang of ginger and vinegar across his tongue. The ginger wouldn’t upset their stomachs the way plain water might after being hot for so long, and it tasted refreshing as he quenched his thirst.

In a momentary lull after lunch, Barnham found himself unsupervised as he rolled the dough for cinnamon buns. Mrs. Eclaire was instead helping Espella by icing small cakes while the girl decorated the trays themselves. He let the two of them talk, resting his muscles as he gently kneaded and rolled out the dough. Once again, Espella was chatting about the festival, but Patty was a much better conversational partner about this particular topic than he could hope to be.

“I do wish that someone will invite Eve to dance tomorrow,” Espella said wistfully, tossing her braids over her shoulders as she pulled apart Eldwitch flowers. Tinier buds, resting on a bed made of the petals of their larger brethren, outlined a tray of colorful jellied rolls. It would be just one of the many displays at Patty’s vendor stall, showing off the abundance of treats for sale. “ _I_ wouldn’t mind if I didn’t dance with anyone but Dad. Only… I want Eve to dance,” she muttered fiercely to the tray as she straightened a bud. “At least once.” Barnham froze, staring at the pale dough on the cutting board.

The Spring Festival was a time of renewal and celebration, to herald the coming of warmer weather after a blustery, icy winter. It was a time to rest, to play games, to spend an afternoon in the company of close companions while eating and drinking one’s fill. But at night, the games ceased and the torches blazed to live all around the Square until it shone as brightly as the noon sun. The bands came forward, and then… then it was a time of dancing.

Of course, everyone danced, from stumbling toddlers to hobbling elders. Friends and family danced together, siblings, companions, mothers and fathers enjoying the night air as they exercised the day’s excess away. But… there came a certain point in the night when the children left and the music changed. It was an unspoken signal to begin a time-honored tradition that had been in place for as long as anyone could remember.

The young men of the town would ask the young ladies of the town to dance. It was a rudimentary form of addressing one’s attraction—everyone knew that most, if not all of the town’s courtships began at the springtime dance. It was something nearly sacred to Labyrinthia, part of the endless cycle of growth and rebirth that continued on though no one knew how or why it ever started in the first place.

The thought of Eve in the arms of another sent an unwarranted fury through his body, much to his shock. Outwardly, he was enough in control of his own body that no one suspected a thing. However, the poor dough was rolled within an inch of its life as he vented his unspoken frustrations on it. He took up the bowl of buttery cinnamon spread and began brushing it heavily over the dough, his mouth set in a thin line.

Why should it be that he was feeling this way all of a sudden? It wasn’t as though he had any claim to the woman. She wasn’t his. She was a _friend_ , his former superior and current workmate. She held no special regard for him—none that he could see, anyway—and they had no shared secrets. And romance, it was… he was built for battle, not blushing. But still! Why was he so unsettled about the thought of her, happy in the embrace of an unknown man?

He managed to quell the anger in his gut with some difficulty, but he kept his ears guiltily trained on the ladies’ conversation. Was Espella speaking of someone in particular? Was there a name to the faceless man holding his— _no, she is **not** mine. _ He grabbed the dough, nearly tearing it as he roughly began to fold and roll it into the proper log shape. Mrs. Eclaire didn’t notice the mistreatment of the bread, her back turned towards him as she laughed over Espella’s words.

“That girl, dancing?” she hooted, stopping her work lest she mar a cake by accident. She wiped the tears from her eyes after a moment, licking her lips before turning back to the miniscule designs decorating the top of a raspberry mille-feuille. “As bashful as she is,” she mused as she worked, squinting her eyes to follow an imaginary line with her icing shaper, “I doubt she’d ever accept an offer, even if she did get one.” The bubbling in his stomach settled further at her words, though he didn’t quite understand why. _Yes, maybe she’s right… maybe…._

“And what’s this ‘I don’t care’ business? You’re plenty old enough for a suitor or two. Why, my sister was just—”

Barnham’s attention drifted as the baker launched into a story about her elder sister. He didn’t know if she truly had a sister or not; if she did, the woman didn’t live in Labyrinthia. Then again, he mused as he made a minute adjustment to a fold in the roll, she wouldn’t have to, would she? The last ten years had been nothing but a pack of lies, fed by a man trying desperately to keep his daughter safe from her own mind. No one’s memories were _completely_ accurate.

Even he wondered about who he was. Who he _had_ been, rather. The memories that were said to return to the town were slow coming, some remembering everything almost instantly while others took weeks just to recall their original last name. He could barely remember anything, other than that he was fairly sure he’d always been called Zach. Zacharias seemed nobler, perhaps, but the name was still familiar. He sometimes had muddled dreams about towering glass buildings and streets that were never, ever silent. But those dreams were more often than not lost in the few quick blinks between sleeping and waking.

He didn’t much care to know who he’d been, though it was instinctive curiosity that plucked at him. Whoever Zach of the glass buildings and loud streets had been, he’d given up that life for this one, and he—Zacharias Barnham, defender of Labyrinthia and apprentice baker—was pleased with the one he now led. He felt no compelling urge to ask Mr. Cantabella about his past, like others had.

Still… there were parts that he wished he could remember. He wished to know of his parents, or _some_ family. He thought he remembered them, but was that a figment of his imagination, filling in the cracks? It might have been that he was just as alone in the old world as he was in this one—save for Constantine and his friends, and Espella and Mrs. Eclaire, of course. And Ms. Primstone couldn’t have been his teacher, though he thought he distinctly remembered a teacher just like her when he was a young boy.

Espella listened, entranced by the baker’s winding tale of flirting and intrigue that flew into a single night of passion and a whirlwind proposal. When Patty was done with the raspberries, she pulled another tray of unfrosted cakes towards her with a little frown.

“Of course, he died soon after and she followed him of a broken heart, so I suppose it _was_ love in the end.” She tapped the icing shaper against her chin, leaving a little trail of chocolate. “Sir Belduke did say it was something-or-other, but a broken heart… yes, that’s what it was, all right.”

“How romantic,” Espella breathed dreamily, only to catch herself and blush. “I mean, not the part about death, that’s sad. But the rest of it was beautiful.” She busied herself with the flowers. “I want Eve to be as happy as your sister was,” she said, voice filled with resolve.  

Barnham took a knife and began cutting the log, thinking over her words as his mind trailed back to his problem. If he couldn’t bear seeing her with another man, the only option was for _him_ to dance with her first. But if he did that, he’d have to court her, and romance was not his forte. He didn’t want to break her heart, or at the least give her a false hope.

 _Do I even have feelings for her?_ It was the first time the question had popped into his head, despite the intense dream. He cut mechanically, thinking it over. He dreamed about her, yes. But that was more lustful than anything else, was it not? Wasn’t infatuation supposed to be butterflies and strumming minstrels and bluebirds chirruping together in a blooming apple tree? He’d never felt any of those things.

But… his mind went back to her birthday, standing in the office. He’d been afraid to face her disappointment in his gift, but why had he tried to make her a gift like that in the first place? He’d heard Espella saying that éclairs were Eve’s favorite dessert, but his original goal had been to make a cake in her image. Wasn’t it to express gratitude or friendship? And why had it been so important to him?

 _Because it would have made her happy._ That was the long and short of it. He had wanted her to be happy, just like Espella. But her happiness… unless it was where he could see it, did it still matter? _Yes, of course!_ his brain said. _Well._ His heart was a different story. It was pettiness, pure and simple. _I want to make her the **happiest**_. And he was fairly certain anyone else who dared to try would cross him, and then he’d be thrown into the dungeon for public brawling, and she would most certainly _not_ be happy with that, and….   

 _Maybe I do. In a way._ He’d never really thought of it before. No, he hadn’t _allowed_ himself to think of it before. But now, standing in the middle of a bakery and cutting cinnamon rolls, he realized that he _wanted_ Eve. Not just as a passing fancy, but… real want. The kind of want that might cause a whirlwind marriage before dying of a broken heart. He wanted her to look at him, and smile at him, and let him touch her pale skin to see if it was as smooth as it appeared to be, and _not_ let anyone else dance with her because he had already called it first—the answer came to him as easily as anything.

 _You’ll have to ask her before anyone else can get to her_.

He immediately brushed the idea aside. It was impossible. Even if he did have those sorts of feelings for her—feelings that were welling up like internal floodwaters now that he’d let them have their moment in the spotlight—he couldn’t ask her to dance. His heart felt tight, an imaginary iron fist squeezing the blood from it in a relentless grip. For one, Mrs. Eclaire had already hit the nail on the head: even if he did ask, she would most likely say no because she was shy.

And he was so easily flustered when it came to expression emotions. Hadn’t her birthday proved that, when he was only showing his feelings of camaraderie and—alright, perhaps even that was something of a basic affectionate gesture. The problem was that he’d been trained to keep his emotions on a tight leash within the garrison, to not let them cloud his mind when dealing with witches. Now, even the best-meant compliment was blundered into an insult thanks to his inarticulate mannerisms.

But to not ask. That was the silent invitation to the rest of the town. _She is free. Take her._ That could not, it _would not_ do. Every available man would want to court her, and that was the very last thing that he wanted to happen. Even so, to dance? With her? What if he embarrassed himself? Or worse, what if he embarrassed her!? He’d only just got the town to stop referencing his ‘Wild Ride’ every time they spied a shying horse. The last thing he needed was a nickname worse than Bouncing Barnham.

 _No, no. I can’t do it. There’s another way._ There had to be another way; no, there was no other way, for the festival was tomorrow. He could track her down and confess tonight, but he was unprepared and he’d just say something terrible. If he looked into her eyes, without regaining the grip over his pattering heart and squirming gut, he doubted he’d be able to string a full two sentences together. But _how_ was he supposed to walk out to her, before the whole town, and ask her to—

“ _Zacharias_!” The voice, filled with alarm, yanked him from his thoughts and he gasped, coming back to the here and now just as the knife was torn from his hands. He looked with wide eyes at the baker, who brandished the blade as she fussed. “Whatever are you doing, child!?” she shrieked. He looked down, realizing that for the last few minutes, he’d been steadily cutting into his greaves with the sharpened blade instead of the dough. If it hadn’t been for the metal, he would have probably lost a finger or two. He stared at her, trying to think up a plausible excuse for his inattentive blunder.

“Oh, it’s alright,” she said after a moment, fingering the edge of the knife. “You didn’t break my knife on your armor.” _That’s what you’re worried over?!_ “Oh, dear. The heat’s gotten to you,” she tutted, seeing the blank stare. “Go. Take a walk and clear your head.”

“But—I can finish these—”

“No, I’ll finish the rolls. You’re liable to break something, or burn the bread because you were off daydreaming. Take a walk, come back in an hour or so,” she said in a motherly tone, pushing him out the door before shutting it firmly behind him. He looked up and down the street before heading in the direction of the garrison; perhaps Mrs. Eclaire was right. A walk may do him some good.

He strolled without paying attention to his surroundings, his mind focused on the tumult that his problem created. The sounds of armor and clink-clank of weaponry alerted him to his position, but he let his feet guide him as he pondered over the few choices he really had. He was so preoccupied by his mental struggle that, before he realized it, he stood before the Audience Room with his hand poised to knock. His body flooded with shame as he realized what he’d been about to do.

Before, when the Story meant something to the people, their problems were carried by either himself or the High Inquisitor to the Storyteller, who would then write solutions into the newest chapter. _More lies, more lies._ He shook away the thought. He’d been about to humble himself and ask for help, out of habit. _Stupid, **stupid**_! The Story was words on a page, meaningless unless the wet ink worked its magic on a hypnotized patient. There was no helpful magic to make his problems vanish. He turned to leave, but before he could step down the first broad stair the door behind him opened.

“Sir Barnham?” He turned automatically and saluted, his mind conditioned to answer his former lord and master’s call. He’d been doing it for a decade. “Is there something wrong?” Mr. Cantabella, asked, tilting his head. Barnham always forgot how _small_ he was, without the thick cloak billowing out and making him seem like a larger than life deity figure. With just his plainclothes, he was no more than another tired old man. A tired old man with a sharp, scrutinizing gaze and a keen sense. He found himself at a loss for words.

“F-forgive me, I apologize for disturbing you,” he finally said with a low bow, chalking the Storyteller’s appearance to some sound he must have made on the stairs. “I had been thinking and—‘twas an unintentional gesture on my part, coming here,” he tried to explain quickly. “I was merely… I mean, I am used to—”

“You came for my help.” It was the truth. Barnham licked his lips, staring stoically at the stone between their feet. “You came to have a Story written for you.”

“F-forgive me. I meant nothing by it.”

“Come in.” He looked up to see the man smiling knowingly. “Do you think you are the first to lapse? Don’t be embarrassed. Old habits die hard, they say.” He stepped back, waving him in with a kindly gesture. Barnham looked around at the posh furnishings, no less admirable and extravagant now that it wasn’t an official Audience Room any longer. It was the Storyteller’s office, holding all the things he’d kept crammed in the tower of his home. It was still messy, albeit more spread with the piano in one corner, the painting materials against the western wall, and the papers in semi-neat stacks around the large desk.

The Storyteller sat in his throne, lacing his fingers as he stared with shrewd eyes. Barnham took a smaller seat, his hands in his lap as he felt like a schoolboy in the principal’s office for some offense rather than a man seeking advice from an elder.

“What’s the matter, Zacharias?” he asked softly. “What’s on your mind, that you came here from the bakery for my Story?” Barnham chewed on his lip, trying to think of the best place to start. On one hand, the Storyteller was a man without judgment, who always listened patiently to the cries of the townsfolk. On the other, he was humiliated enough just being here, much less spilling all his troubles and emotions onto someone he used to revere. Not to mention an attraction to the High Inquisitor. _Former._

“The Spring Festival is tomorrow.” He stopped, gauging the reaction.

“Yes. It comes faster every year.” The Storyteller nodded, rubbing his chin. “What of it?”

“I mean, ‘tis nothing wrong with the festival. It makes everyone happy.” He paused. “’Tis… the dancing, sir.” The man gazed thoughtfully at him, picking up his quill from its holder and tapping it against his chin. The action reminded him of Eve doing the same thing in their office and he suppressed a chill. _Getting out of hand again. Must stop this._

“Whatever do you mean?” Barnham frowned thoughtfully.

“Well, perhaps not all the dancing. Just a part of it.”

“Hmm… I’m afraid I still don’t understand.” The Storyteller lifted his hands. “Perhaps my age is finally getting to me, but I don’t see the problem with everyone’s dancing.”

“It’s not everyone’s dancing! Just mine.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I… the problem is that I wish to ask—that is—I want to ask someone to dance.” He cleared his throat, trying to cross his legs and failing when the armor got in the way. “But ‘tis more than that, too!” he said quickly, when the Storyteller tried to speak again. “Romance has no place on the battlefield! ‘Tis nothing but… but a fool’s errand for a man… of….” he trailed off, feeling his face grow red.

“I’m not seeing where this problem of yours lies, Sir Barnham.” He was tapping the quill again, and cleared his throat. “If you don’t wish for romance, simply don’t dance.”

“But that _is_ the problem!” he groaned, leaning forward in his chair. “I cannot dance with her tomorrow night, but for her to give her hand to another? ‘Tis beyond what I can reasonably bear!” He fisted his hands on his thighs, staring angrily at the carpet. “A harder battle has never been fought, and I seek answers in vain. I don’t see how I can stop such a thing from happening. One must happen, or the other, and neither of them can—must—be.” The room was quiet, save for the ceaseless rhythm of the quill.

“Who is this woman that’s grabbed your attention so thoroughly?” There was a hint of laughter in the old man’s tone. “I’ve never seen you so besotted, Sir Knight. I think some sort of congratulations is in order, for her to have been special enough to catch _your_ eye.”

“A fairer maiden never was,” he blurted out, before he had a chance to take stock of his feelings. He clamped the mental lock over his festering emotion, lest it take full control. “I mean, ‘tis but a fair maiden,” he excused himself uncertainly. 

“Yes, but what is she like?” He thought a moment.

“Her eyes are… well, her fingers are… her hair is like… her countenance, it—I cannot say for certain. She is beautiful, for sure.” He hadn’t thought much about beauty, but he was fairly certain Eve’s looks fell under that category. Gorgeous, perhaps. Stunning. Enchanting. Bewitch—perhaps that was too far. “A word to capture her essence is beyond the limitations of my vocabulary,” he finally concluded with certainty.

“I see.” The Storyteller hid a smile behind his fingers as he rested his head on them. “Go on.” _Go on? How?_ He tried to think of what the others used to say in the garrison, the lesser trained boys who hadn’t learned to keep their chatter to a minimum and spoke of pretty girls and bosoms and sneaking out to meet them under the moonlight. He came up with nothing and looked helplessly at the questioner.

“When did you first notice these feelings?” _Today_. That wasn’t altogether true, though, was it? He’d just let himself start thinking along these lines today. _Maybe I should have been more controlling. Maybe I could have stopped this before it got this far._

“I can’t say for certain.” He stumbled over his words, the confusion tying his tongue and making him sound, to his own ears, like an idiot. “But I was… smitten. Before I knew it. Before I had time to brace against it. ‘Tis a shame towards my training,” he sighed.

“Nonsense.” He looked up in surprise. The Storyteller, speaking of sacred training as though it were… _nonsense?!_ “Don’t sell your emotions short. If you feel this way, it must be for a reason. No training in the world is worth missing a chance at having a special connection with someone else.” His hand reached beneath his bangs, rubbing over the scar of fire on his face. “Now… what leads to you to this conclusion, knight? Why do you consider her an object of affection?” He hadn’t really thought it over, other than just not wanting her to dance with another man. But he could see where the Storyteller was trying to lead him, and followed as blindly as he ever had.

“I like to hear her talk. People are frightened of her when she points and pretends to be mean, but she’s just teasing and I think that’s… cute.” _When did I start noticing all these things about her?_ “I worry about her, walking home in the woods all alone like she does. And I… I want…” _I want to kiss her._ “I-I-I want to stay by her. I find excuses to stay, even when work’s over.”

“If love is a fool’s errand, you’re a great fool indeed,” the Storyteller laughed. He felt an odd mixture of shame and relief, as if they were sharing a secret. “But you’re not the first man to fall victim to it, nor will you be the last.” He shifted in his seat, but didn’t dare disagree. “However, if you really want to ask Eve to dance, I believe there just _might_ be something I can do to help.”

“E—Ho—W— _Wha-a-a-t_!?” He leapt to his feet, cheeks blazing. Had he noticed? Had everyone in town noticed? Did they all sit and laugh behind their hands at Zacharias Barnham, fallen so far, to be the lovelorn fool that pined after Newton Belduke’s daughter?

Oh great Story, did _she_ know!?

“Calm yourself, boy.” The Storyteller motioned for him to sit with the quill, his free hand searching in his desk drawer.

“B-b-but how did you know ‘twas Miss Eve?!” It didn’t occur to him that he might have lied, and saved himself some trouble. The Storyteller arched one brow, grinning wryly as he found a blank sheet of paper and began to fold it expertly.

“Hmm… who do you work with? Who pretends to be mean, and goes around town pointing at everyone and ordering them about? Who are they still a bit wary of, if not our own dear Eve?” _Dear?_ “Now.” He took his quill and began to write smoothly across the page. “As you well know, my Story holds no more power than those thin clouds out there.” He gestured beyond the window. “But in certain cultures around the world, the idea of talismans exist.”

“T-talismans?”

“If you write words in certain orders, and fold paper in certain ways, it might be beneficial.” He licked his lips as he continued to write. “Yes…. I wrote this out in a way to bring you luck and confidence tomorrow. Carry it on your person, and you should be fine.”

“Thank you.” He took the folded paper, staring at it. These words, just because he’d written them a certain way, would bring him luck? Could it really be true?

“I was once your age, you know. It was a long time ago,” The Storyteller added as an afterthought. “I asked my wife to dance. I was so nervous, my hands shook and I was afraid my heart would beat right out of my chest. I tried to hurry across the Square to speak with her, but I tripped over my own feet and sprawled out in front of the whole town. Bloodied my nose. But despite my embarrassment… she still danced with me.”  He smiled, a sad look in his eye. “Good luck, Sir Barnham. I’ll root for you.”

“I—thank you,” he repeated, crunching the paper in his fist as he turned to leave.

When he reached the bakery once more, the preparations were complete. Patty explained that Eve had come by, and helped with the last few batches in his absence before running off with Espella for their dresses from Ms. Tailor. The sound of her name sent a funny thrill through him, and it seemed the paper grew warmer in his hand as he excused himself to his bedroom until supper.

Shutting his door, he took off his armor and set it aside to clean later before lying back on the cot. The sun was gone now, shining instead against the western roof and leaving his room in a murky, comforting twilight. He calmed himself, letting his eyes close until his heart regained a more normal rhythm. Only then did he carefully unfold the slightly crumpled talisman to read the words written there.

 

_The bold_

_Knight, talisman in_

_His keep, awoke with determination_

_And thoroughly enjoyed the festival with no_

_Concerns for the evening’s objective. He felt a sense_

_Of luck and as the day grew to a close, he was able to brush aside_

_His gnawing nervousness. The dancing began and he_

_Approached the maiden fair, self-confidence in_

_Check. His anxiety dissipated at the sight_

_Of her smile, and by night’s end_

_His objective was then_

_Achieved._

 

He read the paper through three times, unable to believe that the way the words were written would cause any luck to come to him. And yet, the more he read it, the more confident he felt. It was as if the old man’s encouragement was resonating within his breast, poured into the paper through his handwriting. It was as if Mr. Cantabella believed that he had what it took to defeat his qualms and make the right decision.

He watched eddies of dust in the sunlight, one arm slung over his head as he placed the talisman on the floor beside his cot. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. It seemed only a moment later that someone was shaking him awake, and he looked up to see Espella standing over him with a candle. The room was darkened, and the breeze from the open window would have chilled his skin if it hadn’t been for the armor.

“Sir Barnham?” she asked uncertainly, concern knitting her brow as she bent over him. “Are you feeling ill? It’s not like you to go to bed without supper.” Barnham sat up, rubbing his face wearily and shook his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind.

“No, I am not unwell,” he promised her with a yawn. “Perhaps the day’s duties wearied me more than I first thought. But rest assured that the breads of Labyrinthia will not escape my blade; they will be baked by my hand!” He stood, energy from his nap flooding his veins. His stomach rumbled and Espella covered her mouth with her hand while she snickered at his overenthusiastic display.

Even with the reenergizing catnap, the night’s hearty supper soon had a soporific effect on his mind. Espella and Patty both retired to their rooms early, claiming tiredness from the overhaul of baking. Barnham agreed to lock up the store and make sure that Constantine and Eve couldn’t get to the treats laid prettily beneath protective cloths.

Then he readied himself for the night. Moving quietly on the landing, he locked himself in the lavatory for a quick bath and returned to his room, taking off his armor and giving it a good shining while he let his hair dry.

He undressed and latched the window, crawling beneath his quilt and reaching down once to make sure that the Storyteller’s talisman was still where he’d placed it. Constantine licked his fingers before jumping up and walking down to the foot of the bed to curl up. Barnham let out a breath, willing himself to relax. It didn’t take long before he was fast asleep, his fingertips still brushing the folded paper as he snored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: 
> 
> Read it. Favorite it. Review it. (bangs fist on computer and flour flies everywhere)


	2. The Spring Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Festival Time!

Having worked so hard the day before, there were no unwanted—as he kept trying to convince himself—dreams to cloud his mind and awaken him prematurely. Instead, it was Espella, belonging fully to the world of reality, which jerked him awake as she pounded with abandon on his door. The usually demure girl seemed beside herself with a wild excitement as she called to him through the sturdy wood.

            “Sir Barnham! Are you decent? ‘Tis breakfast time, and Aunt Patty told me to call on you to make sure you were dressed, lest you sleep the day away and miss the festival entirely!” The festival? _The festival_. He took a deep breath to calm himself before jumping from bed and hoisting his sleeping pants up around his waist until they covered a modest amount of his hips.

            “Enter!” he called, turning to make up his bed. Even on a holiday, an unmade bed was unacceptable. He turned back to see her dressed up from head to toe in a new outfit, her braids brushed to shining. The knee length dress was a dove gray that went well with her straw-colored plaits, and her crimson bodice enhanced the delicate floral stitching of the neckline.

            “A finely tailored dress,” he nodded his admiration as she twirled in place for him, the flouncing skirt lifting on the air to show a new white petticoat beneath. He reached for his armor, but she stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

            “Oh, _no_!” she tsked, shaking her head. “No armor today. You have to dress in your best!”

            “My armor is my best,” he began, but she shook her head.

            “No way. It’s your work clothes, and work clothes are absolutely forbidden on holidays. If Aunt Patty can be dressed properly, then you can too.” He thought about protesting, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the talisman still folded where he’d left it the night before. He swallowed hard, but obediently turned to his trunk and pulled out his more modern attire.

“That’s the spirit,” Espella said confidently, backing towards the door and beckoning for Constantine. “Come on, boy. You and Eve can eat downstairs while your master gets ready for the day.” The dog heard “eat” and immediately was at her heels, barking as he scrambled past her for the stairs. Espella smiled and shut the door, and a moment later he heard her descend as well.

            He dressed silently, rolling up the sleeves of the beige jacket and looping the tie around his neck. Strapping on his sandals, he frowned slightly at the unfamiliar feeling of air on his feet. He was used to heavy iron boots, not thin straps of leather. He picked the talisman from the floor and slipped it deeply into his pocket, patting it to make sure it wouldn’t fall out.

 He still felt foolish about the whole affair, but… there was something burning in his chest that wasn’t before. _Resolve._ He stepped into the privy and wetted a comb to run through his hair before shaving quickly. Staring into the mirror as though seeing himself for the first time, he frowned. _Does Eve find me handsome as well?_ He didn’t know the answer, and it unsettled him.

He tugged self-consciously at his collar, toying with his shirt and the tie until he decided that it looked well enough. He just wasn’t used to seeing that much skin at one time, unless he was in the privacy of his own room. He wondered briefly if he looked “cool”, as the tourists that came to the town sometimes said. _Would she think I’m cool too, I wonder?_

“Well, hello there handsome!” Patty said when she caught sight of him. She laughed afterwards, but the compliment was still honest and he couldn’t help flushing slightly. She was altered as well, her curls managed and twisted neatly beneath her ears, her face flushed not with heat, but with a good scrubbing. Her plain dress had been exchanged for a long hemmed blue sundress with a pink ribbon around her neck, and instead of her kerchief a white straw hat sat daintily atop her head. _Even if I don’t like my red hair, I think hers looks very nice._

Espella looked at him and immediately bit her lip to stifle her giggling. Patty looked at her strangely and she quickly busied herself with carrying the trays out to the wagon that the baker had borrowed from Mary the Milkmaid. Barnham saw Constantine eating a leftover bun and a sudden thought occurred to him that the dog should be wearing the little neckerchief that matched his own tie. He quickly ran back upstairs and dug through the trunk until he found the scrap of fabric, and then ordered the pup to sit still until it was neatly tied around his neck.

With Barnham’s help, the wagon was soon fully loaded. Patty had packed them all lunches, but they took a roll to eat on the way there for their breakfast. Barnham ate his in two bites before picking up the front of the wagon and pulling it in the direction of the Square. Patty led the way with Eve and Constantine, and Espella followed behind to make sure none of the trays were jostled loose on the cobblestone pathway.

The air was as chilly as the day before, but already the sun was rising above the rooftops and the promise of warmth stirred the birds in the eaves. Despite the sleeping town, the lack of people to fill its streets, and his own sleepiness, he found himself surprisingly cheerful. Perhaps it was because of his happy companions, looking forward to a day of pleasure. It was impossible to be unaffected when Patty began to hum an old tune, Espella softly singing along to the chorus as they wound through the streets towards the Square. The bell tower rose above them, not a harbinger of doom but a friendly beacon.

Despite their early start, one or two vendors had beaten them to the Square and were already setting up shop in their allotted spaces on the grass. Patty pointed them towards her own stand, set up to her standards the day before by the Labyrinthian Festival Preparation Committee—or, at least, that’s what the Vigilantes called it.

She gave Espella some money to get them some salt pork, sizzling on the coals in the butcher’s stall. Barnham helped her unpack, unable to think about his own issues while she barked orders at him to put this here, that there, turn this, not that far! Espella came back with the ham, tossing the hot meat between her hands so that they wouldn’t burn, and they all enjoyed an extra treat for the second part of their breakfast. The butcher came by, talking to Mrs. Eclaire before buying one of her jellied rolls.

More and more vendors trailed to the Square every passing minute, and soon each roped area was full of things to buy, things to eat, things to admire. The butcher’s meat wasn’t the only delicious smell wafting through the air. Mary sold fresh milk by the glassful, her goats bleating and blinking slowly as they looked around at the crowds. Their neighbor the fishmonger had fish cooked every way imaginable, his wife and daughter scurrying in circles around the stand to put the finishing touches on their displays. Rouge and a few of her cronies—regulars—had ale and drinks (on order). The candymaker and his young bride walked by with armfuls of confectionaries, the greengrocer had every in-season fruit and vegetable imaginable as well as preserves and punches, and even a few of the village housewives had homemade treats for sale.

Despite eating twice already, his mouth watered.

Soon the games were being set up, and the Square began to fill with people here not to sell, but to buy. By midmorning, the festival was in full swing and there were cheers, laughter, and loud talking from every corner of the grass, echoing off the surrounding buildings and upsetting the doves that roosted in the lower belfry. Mrs. Eclaire took command of the stall, shooing them away with a friendly smile. She reached into her coin purse and pulled out money, giving them each an equal amount. Barnham tried to refuse, but she waved at all his sputtering.

“Don’t give me that. You worked so yesterday—no, all year. You deserve some time to have fun. If Espella is allowed spending money, so are you. Go and enjoy yourself.” She turned, dismissing him as she began to help the first in a growing line of customers.

Espella bounded away with a laugh, the coins jingling in her hand as she headed for the thickest bunch of food stalls. He pocketed the money, looking about for Constantine. The pup was nowhere in sight, and he only hoped it wasn’t causing trouble somewhere. He knew how his little friend could get around food. Shrugging, he took one last look at the bakery stand before wandering off on his own to take in the sights.

There were a variety of games to be had: ball tossing, ring aiming, games of chance and games of strategy, games of cunning or brute strength. He stopped near the toymaker’s booth, where children could knock balls into pins and win prizes. He smiled in amusement as the hotheaded little firecracker of a girl Petal won her younger brother a bear dressed as a knight. The boy hugged it to him, sniveling that he could have won it if she’d let him, and she scowled before dragging him off to another game.

The confectioner’s booth was more interesting, though with the same basic setup. Only this time, there was a catch: a large tub of chilly water had been pulled from the river, and above it sat the town drunkard. Emeer Punchenbaug put down his skull mug long enough to see Barnham and brandished it threateningly, shouting loud enough to startle a nearby group of women.

“You think you got what it takes to knock me into the drink!?” he swore, kicking his skinny legs on the wooden platform. His eyes were red-rimmed and hazy with lack of sleep. _You need a good dunk, old man. Or perhaps two… or three._ The crowd began to gather around them, nosily seeing what the noise was about. “Come on, Insisiquor! Inquisitor! Pay some coin and try your hand!” The candymaker and his wife agreed, pressing him to hit the target and knock the bawdy man into the water.

The crowd watched in interest as the confectioner gave Barnham three balls. He handed two of them back, something of his old smugness springing back into life.

“I only need _one_.” There was a chorus of oohs and aahs, the crowd whispering amongst themselves. It sounded the way the gallery used to, and if he closed his eyes… yes, there it was, the flickering lights, the cheering:  the sounds of his victories. Was it a crime to be a little vain? Perhaps… but if no one called him out on it, then who was worried? He cracked his knuckles, focusing on his target. His training in the garrison had been about precision and accuracy; he would not miss the target and embarrass himself.

Holding his new bear, Cecil began to lead the old chant. Soon, the crowd was cheering his name. The pride of what he once was, despite its darker tones, ran through his veins. _Defender of Labyrinthia…._ Their reverence wasn’t lost on him. He reared back, eyes narrowing on the target before he let the ball go. It landed in the dead center of the target, slamming back the mechanism and sending the howling drunkard straight into an icy wake-up call. The rest of them heard the call as well, the water splashing over him as well as anyone standing too close to the tub. There were squeals of surprise and shock as the water drenched them, but it was quickly replaced by laughter. The crowd’s voice rose to a roar of approval as the candymaker shook his hand, his wife presenting him with a paper cup of sweetmeats as his prize. 

Shaking the water from his hair, Barnham couldn’t help but laugh a little as well. Even though he knew he could hit the target… to be dead center? What a lucky shot! He walked on, hands patting his back or shaking his shoulders in encouragement. He ate his ‘reward’ slowly, letting the candies melt on his tongue as he watched and participated in other games. He quenched his thirst with ale from Rouge, enjoying the company of his tavern comrades. By the time he’d spent his money and made it directly beneath the bell tower’s shadow, Espella caught up to him. Turning at the sound of her voice, he saw her waving him down and obediently slowed to a stop in order to let her catch up.

“Sir Barnham! Everyone in town’s talking about how you beat the confectioner’s game in just one throw! That must have been amazing!”

“Well, it was certainly wet,” he chuckled, shrugging.

“I tried, but I wasn’t strong enough to hit the target… I did hit the confectioner, though.” She winced. “Eve wouldn’t even try after that, even though I begged her to. Would you, Eve?”

The candy stuck in his throat.

Gulping the sticky lump, he felt his heart hammer against his ribcage and fought the urge to foolishly try to stifle it with his hand. The dark-haired woman followed her younger companion, her gaze shyly on the ground. If that dress looked well on Espella, then it was the personification of beauty on her. Her bodice, a lighter purple, had the same effect on the neckline that Espella’s did. But while he’d looked Espella over without a second thought, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the soft, pale skin exposed above her collarbone. Skin he normally didn’t see. Skin he wanted to remember forever. Or see more of, if it were possible. And her legs, so _uncovered_ without those tight leggings….  

            _You, Sir Barnham, are in danger._

            “Espella, you talk too much sometimes.” The words lacked heat, but her voice… when had her voice become so— _so_? “But I’m glad to see that you’re enjoying yourself, Zacharias.” Nothing about it had changed. It was the same tone she always used to address him. Nothing new, nothing special, nothing warm or inviting, nor cool and distancing. It was simply Eve. Was it only that he had changed, while everything else stayed the same? “Zacharias?” She looked up from the ground, the gesture somehow forced in its quick movement. What was it? Did he make her uncomfortable? Was it his silence? Was he staring? He was staring. _Stop staring._ He turned his face to the bell tower, feeling beads of sweat on the back of his neck.

            “I’m having fun,” he told the bell tower. “It’s a pleasant day.”

            “Um… yes.” What else was he supposed to say? This was not how one carried a conversation. _This is terrible. First I dream about her, then I find her attractive, and now I can’t even speak to her. How am I supposed to ask her to dance? Ms. Primstone, where was your lesson? Emotions, they bring nothing but trouble!_ He spoke to her nearly every day on matters of greater importance than a silly festival. “Your dress is very nice.”

            “Oh.” She sounded surprised that he’d even brought it up. He tried to peek out of the corner of his eye and saw her tug self-consciously at the hem. “Yes, I—he insisted that we have matching dresses, for tradition’s sake.” She seemed as reluctant to speak as he did, though he couldn’t imagine why. She never seemed to be so shy around him before. Usually she assumed the authoritative position when they worked on the reconstruction; habit, he supposed, from when she was High Inquisitor and he her subordinate.

“When we were children, our mothers would make us matching dresses for the Spring Festival,” Espella explained helpfully, not knowing exactly what was going on between the two of them, but wanting to dispel the awkward silence as best she could. “We haven’t worn outfits together in years, so I suppose Dad was just being a little sentimental. But it doesn’t hurt to wear them for one day, does it?”

“No! No,” Eve blurted, shaking her head. “I’m not complaining in the slightest. I-I love the dress. It’s a welcome change from having to dress in a uniform all the time,” she continued quickly, brushing her hair behind her ears. “Well…. We won’t bother you any longer, Zacharias. We were just headed towards the fountain, _weren’t we, Espella_?” She used more force than necessary, but the teen caught on after a moment, her mouth opening in silent comprehension before she turned to the knight, nodding vigorously.

“Yes! We have to go there straightaway!” she agreed. “I’ll see you at lunch, Sir Barnham.” She waved and tugged Eve in the direction they’d come, disappearing into the crowd once more. He watched them leave, feeling more puzzled than ever. He wasn’t sure if he had something to do with Eve’s strange behavior or not, considering how he barely managed to get a word in edgewise. Of course, Espella did say that her friend was shy, and didn’t do well in crowds. Perhaps the heavy throngs of Labyrinthians had made her nervous already?

 _This is bad._ What would his old leader have said? Already, he’d let his errant emotions get the best of him in two days. He sat on a bench nearby, crumpling the paper cup in his hand. _Think about what you’re doing, Barnham._ If he… if he danced with her, he’d have to let her know how he felt. What he thought about her. And that meant danger. To bare his emotions fully, to anyone, was… unthinkable. Of course, anger and happiness each had its day. But the battlefield was only for the stalwart and stoic. There could by no emotional outbursts, no wayward feelings that might get in the way and let Bezell— _Bezella doesn’t exist!_ Did that mean it was alright, though? Would he have looked down on his teammates for behaving in such an infatuated manner? _I… I don’t know. I think I’d have to look at it objectively, as a case._ But he couldn’t be objective here. This was his own heart.

The talisman poked at his leg, as though to remind him of its existence. _The Storyteller… he said that I shouldn’t let my training get in the way of a potential romantic attachment. I don’t see how that could be. But…._ He technically didn’t _need_ her, did he? Logically, the answer was no. She was not vital to his survival. She was not air, nor food, nor drink. But another part of him whispered that yes, he did need her, as much as he wanted her. He didn’t understand how a mind could be at war with itself. He didn’t know which side was the correct one. They couldn’t _both_ be right.

_‘Tis best to put it out of my mind… though I don’t have much time to think about it until nightfall._

He wandered around more, stopping to speak politely with the few townspeople who flagged him down. The Vigilantes, having volunteered to keep peace at the event, were dressed up in their armor and all sweating heavily. Each one congratulated him on his “victory” at the candy maker’s game, and Miss Foxy even offered him a complimentary heel stomp (which he graciously refused).

Soon the clock struck noon and he made his way back to Patty’s stall, which was thankfully in the shade. He and Espella rested their feet and Patty closed the stand so they could all eat their dinner of cold sandwiches and milk. As a special treat, they each were allowed to pick one of the Spring Festival pastries to eat for dessert. Even after spending his money on all sorts of foods that morning, Barnham still found himself hungry enough to devour every last bit of the cake he’d chosen.

When lunch was over, Barnham and Espella took turns for two hours apiece watching the stand so that Patty could get out and enjoy the festive air as well. The afternoon passed quickly when you had a ceaseless line of hungry customers. The vendors began packing up after 5:00, and as the sun set everyone waited with growing anticipation for the band. The Vigilantes lit the torches around the Square, and the middle of the cobbled walk was being cleared for dancers.

* * *

_Still… still…._

Barnham fingered the talisman in his pocket, lips pressed in a thin line as he thought. All day, he couldn’t find a solid answer to what he’d asked himself. It was an impossible puzzle: he didn’t need her, but he needed her. He wouldn’t die without her, but if she danced with someone else, he would surely die.

The band was preparing for the night’s songs, and everyone had begun crowding around the Square in a large ring. The families and their friends would dance first, but that wasn’t what he was worried about. He touched the paper again, having memorized the words written on it last night before bed.

_He felt a sense of luck and as the day grew to a close, he was able to brush aside his gnawing nervousness._

He had been lucky all day, he presumed. After all, he’d won every game he tried his hand at. That was particularly fortunate. And when he’d manned the bakery stand he _had_ sold many good treats, much more than usual. Had the Storyteller’s words really come true, or was it just a great coincidence? _Hmm…._ He shook his head, going over the details once more. There were certain truths to his predicament, unchangeable constants to his puzzle.

He wanted Eve. He wanted to talk with her, to laugh with her, to dance with her. He wanted to be close to her. He wanted _her_ to want _him_ to be close. He wanted her to want him.

If he chose to pursue these wants, he would have to let her know of his feelings. To not do so would be folly. She might be confused, or even distraught. He didn’t want to distress her. It would be far easier to feel the pain of loss than to see pain on her face.

To let her know of his feelings was dangerous. A knight was calm both outwardly and inwardly. Emotion didn’t enter the daily battle. It clouded judgment. Romance was a fool’s errand. He was a fool, according to the town leader. It was dangerous, because fools made mistakes. Fools were… laughed at. Ridiculed. He could not stand her ridicule. It would drive through his heart sharper than any blade.

If he danced with her, he faced ridicule, foolishness, pain. But he would have a chance at seizing the thing he most coveted: her attention. Her affection. Even… her passion.

If he did not dance with her, he was safe. His emotions would be tightly locked away. But he would suffer the loss of what might have been, as well as the daily agony of seeing her happy with someone else.

Either way, some part of him was in danger of dying.

 _Surely I am not afraid…._ He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. The question, as far as he saw it, boiled down to one thing: Was the thing he wanted most in the world worth dying for? His fist crushed the paper.

_Yes._

It was only five simple words. _Would you dance with me?_ He couldn’t manage to make a mess of five words, could he?

_Yes._

A loud note from a fiddle arced through the air and a cheer rose from the Square to echo in the night sky. It was dancing time.

“Sir Barnham! Dance with me!” Espella ran up to him and grabbed his arm, yanking like a child much smaller than she was. “Dad hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Well, I—that is—alright.” He could think of no good way to refuse her without hurting her feelings. The band launched into an old folk tune and he allowed her to lead him to the center of the ring. He twirled her around with the others, his feet finding the old, familiar rhythm and guiding hers along for the ride. Thank the Story, but he still remembered how to dance. He could feel some of his anxiety leeching out as he wound them around the Square. _If I practice, then when the time comes, it should be simple._

 _The talisman must be working after all_ , he thought with a smirk as he led the teen through the finishing notes and then bowed gallantly to her when as the crowd clapped. She tittered and curtseyed before spying her father and roping him for the second dance. Barnham then asked Patty on a whim, who blushed as bright as her hair but agreed, saying afterwards that it was the first time in twenty years that she’d danced with anyone so charming.

The evening flew by on the wings of endless music. Years of practice had him looking nonchalant and happy, though his hand stayed on the talisman even as his toes tapped and his body thrummed with the resonance of a thousand songs. _I mustn’t be nervous._ The Vigilantes nearly got into a fistfight over who was to dance with Foxy and when. _I mustn’t be nervous._ Rouge and Boistrum danced a polka, each trying to trip the other. _I mustn’t be nervous._ The Storyteller waltzed Mrs. Eclaire as though the Square was a lavish ballroom. _I mustn’t be nervous._ Petal and Cecil danced, not yelling or crying for once but instead giggling. _I mustn’t be nervous._ Ridelle swayed in place with a book.

The girls came out to dance. Jean tried to keep up with Lettie’s fast moves. Cinderellia had to nearly squat to reach Muffet’s height. Espella, with a strength Barnham didn’t know she possessed, literally dragged Eve to the dance floor. He watched as the two girls began to dance, finding their rhythm clumsily before twirling around much more gracefully as they fell in synch with each other. He was fairly certain that witches _did_ exist at this point, because he was spellbound. He couldn’t take his eyes off of them as they danced, watching Eve and feeling a strange sense of envy for Espella.

What would it feel like, to touch her waist the way that Espella was? To hold her hand as they two-stepped in time with the music? To feel her so close… she must be warm. Suddenly, without a shadow of a doubt, he had to dance with her. Emotions be damned, Knights be damned, even his own stupid doubts be damned.

He had to know if she was warm.

Then night fell. It felt as though he looked at the sky one minute and it was blue, and the next it was black and twinkling with stars. The full moon hung low and bright, aiding the torches in lighting the Square. A few families with young children departed for home, and the crowds began to thin out. The music changed, though no hand gave a signal. No voice called for a different melody, but all at once the pitch dropped and the rhythm slowed, sending a serene air over the remaining townsfolk.

Then, out of the crowd, a young man led a blushing young lady to the center and began to dance in a slow, easy way. More and more couples paired off and began to dance, and his heart quickened. It was time, wasn’t it? His plan _had_ to be enacted now.

He brushed the paper in his pocket again, gaining strength from the written words. He took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the edges of the crowd for Eve. Finally he spotted her and Espella together. Espella kept glancing at one of the Great Archive’s young bookkeepers with a coy, inviting smile, but Eve seemed almost frightened to make eye contact with anyone. _Good. Maybe I have a chance, if she’s not seeking another already. Five words. Just five words. You can do five words._ He straightened his shoulders, trying to look purposeful as he brushed his way through the crowd.

By the time he’d gotten to them, Espella had caught the eye of the lad and was not-so-subtly nudging her head towards the dance floor. Eve, too caught up in her friend’s antics, didn’t notice him until he cleared his throat. She jumped, whirling around in a near panic, and froze when she saw him standing there. Her eyes were filled with confusion.

“Miss Eve?” Had he frightened her? Was she afraid that he’d ask her to dance? He peered closely, trying to decide the answer. Maybe this was the wrong idea; maybe she _didn’t_ want to dance with anyone, much less him. He should probably just back out now…. He shifted and the talisman rubbed against his leg, almost as if reminding him of his motive and chiding his cowardice.

_If you give up now, you’ll never know how she feels against you._

“Please, Miss Eve… do me the….” He shifted, already antsy. “I apologize for startling you.” _Coward. Miserable, pathetic coward._

“No. It’s fine. I was preoccupied.” They stared at each other a moment, and to his surprise she began to fidget. “Erm… was there something you needed?” Was it just his own wishful thinking, or did she sound _hopeful_? There wasn’t time to process the thought, and she was already looking up at him with a halfhearted, pained expression that plainly told of her rising anxiety. Her fingers crept up to tug at a curl, and in that moment she looked entirely, utterly… _cute._

“Willyoudancewithme.” Her eyes widened.

“I’m sorry?” He had lost the ability to speak proper English, but he waved his hand at the dance floor.

“Please… dancewithme.” The words were again in a rush, barely understandable. But she caught his meaning this time and looked out at the dancers, then at his hand, then at him. With wooden movements, he moved his arm until he was offering the same hand to her. “Miss Eve.” _Don’t laugh. Scoff, blush, cry, all as you please. Just don’t laugh._ The cold hand gripped his heart again. It could have only been a minute at the most, but it seemed as though he stood in place for hours, waiting for her answer.

“Yes.” With equally stiff movements, her hand was in his and he found himself caught. _How small and nice and… don’t let go of me._ His heart was fluttering again, his breath catching in his lungs. He found himself walking without really meaning to, and it was only Providential that his legs had decided to go onto the dance floor. She took a soft breath when he turned and reached for her, stepping forward to allow an intimate, though modest distance between their bodies. _No… I want you against me…._

_Calm yourself._

Gently, so gently, his hand fell on her waist. It was just as soft, and pliable, and he wanted nothing more than to feel even before all these people. _I think those dreams will be getting worse…._ She took another breath, lifting her head before adopting the expression he knew more from the Courtroom. He was taken aback, but he saw her eyes flitting nervously to the crowd and realized that for their sake, she was trying to be brave. She clearly didn’t want anyone noticing any apprehension on her part.

They danced, slow and even, gliding carefully along the cobblestones. He didn’t look at her; he couldn’t, not knowing what he might do if their eyes caught again. He instead focused, focused on keeping his face neutral, on the feeling of her hand in his, her waist beneath him, on keeping their bodies from drifting closer even if he wanted it more than anything. He saw things in pieces as they spun: The Storyteller and Mrs. Eclaire, Espella dancing close by. The talisman rubbed a beat all its own against his leg inside his pocket.

The song ended, too soon. Some changed partners, while others stayed the same. He looked down at her, not wanting to let go. He felt steady enough to catch her eye and saw with a strange, envious glee that she seemed happy. His body warmed from the inside out at the sight of her smile, small as it was. He couldn’t help but return it with a grin of his own.

“Would you… like to dance another?” Her expression became surprised again. Was she not expecting that?

“Uhm…” She looked out at the crowd hesitantly. “I wouldn’t want to be selfish.” _Be as selfish as you like._ He followed her eyes to a few of his more… _ardent_ fans. Was this an excuse? Did she want to leave? It would be noble, to give her an out. The knightly thing to do. But he wasn’t feeling very knightly. In fact, if he was damning things, than knightly honor be damned.

 Just for tonight.

“I don’t want to dance with anyone else.” The words left his mouth the moment the thought passed through his mind. She looked back at him quickly, her hair fluttering from the sharp movement. He balked, but forced his voice to remain steady. “Only you.” As he watched, a blush spread along her cheeks.

“Oh.” Her lips parted slightly as the soft exhale escaped. _I want to kiss you._ He forced the thought back down with sheer willpower. “Well… in that case… I’d be….” Her mouth twisted as she fought for words. “I… don’t want to dance with anyone else either.” Her face darkened with her admission, but he felt such a rush of pure joy that he didn’t mind in the slightest. The world could have ended, the witch trials could have started again, and he wouldn’t have cared at all. And with his joy came a confidence that he usually only had on the battlefield.

“Then may I be so bold as to claim you for the rest of the night?” he asked, a suave edge to his tone as he gently pulled her closer. She blinked up at him in surprise before nodding silently and looking down at his tie, a cryptic smile gracing her lips. They still weren’t close enough to touch, but as he danced her around to a quicker tune, he didn’t need any warmth other than the red still gracing her cheeks.

The dancing carried on into the night, and it was nearing 2:00 am before people finally began to disperse. Espella bid goodnight to her bookkeeper before yawning and heading off to the bakery alone, Patty already having turned in some time before. The younger couples said their goodbyes and left for their own homes as well; the ones that lived on the outskirts were escorted by the Vigilantes for their own safety.

Barnham’s feet were aching and Eve yawned, one hand over her mouth. Many of the older couples bid each other farewell. Many more ran off together into the night, no doubt searching for some secret place to continue their fun. The Vigilantes that weren’t escorting the teens home began to put out the torches, and after watching them for a moment Barnham turned to his partner for the evening.

“I’ll walk you to the gate.” She looked at him cryptically. “If you’ll permit me.” It was late, and a few drunken delinquents might be about. It wouldn’t do to have her accosted when he could have stopped it. A man such as himself would never allow a woman to walk home alone with criminals on the prowl. Especially not _this_ woman. _My woman. Perhaps._

Eve conceded and they walked through the now-quiet streets of Labyrinthia, the wall looming up before them out of the darkness the closer they got. They didn’t speak until they reached the gate. Eve turned to look at him, smiling with her usual self-assurance. It appeared that her confidence had come back. Perhaps she simply felt more comfortable around him when the two of them were alone? Could he also be that way around her? He remembered his earlier bemusement and nervous stammering under the bell tower. It hadn’t returned, but was that only a matter of time? 

“I had a nice time tonight, Zacharias.” She cleared her throat. “I had no idea that dancing was one of your many talents.”

“A knight refined in battle is proficient in all things.” He smiled again. “What is dancing but an elegant, choreographed battle between two bodies?”

“I’ve never heard it put that way….” She tilted her head, still smiling at him. “But you seem confident enough, so I’ll take your word for it.” More teasing. He liked it. Why did he like it so much? He never enjoyed such a thing when she was the High Inquisitor. Or, at least, he didn’t remember enjoying it. “Can you come by the office tomorrow? I have something I want to show you.”

“As you wish, Miss Eve.” He nodded his assent.

“You don’t have to say that. Miss Eve.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You can call me Eve. I call you Zacharias after all, so it’s fair.”

“As you wish… Eve.” The single syllable sounded so strange to him without the politeness before it. It seemed to strike a chord within her as well, and for a moment his mind must have been putting wishes into his head once more. He thought, as they stared at each other in the dark, he could read her mind just as easily as he could his own.

_I want to kiss you._

_I want you to kiss me_.

“I have to go.” She took a step back, whetting her lips. “It’s late.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll come by tomorrow then? Definitely?”

“Yes.”

“Good-by then.” His hand grabbed her wrist. They both stared at it, and then before he knew exactly what he was doing his lips were pressed to her fingers. A tremor worked its way down her arm. He forced himself away when he heard her sharp, startled gasp, his eyes quickly mapping the scar of flame on the back of her palm before he released her.

“Until tomorrow.”  He saw her wide eyes, the way her hand went down stiff at her side, her jaw slack as she all but gaped. “Eve.” He watched her leave, her stance straight as a board, her fist clenching and unclenching at her side. _What is this… feeling?_

_‘Tis overwhelming._


	3. The Fountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Eve...?
> 
> Also, my favorite chapter to rewrite, since I could add more to their little argument.

Eve was… embarrassed.

            No, that wasn’t the word for it. Surely, there was a stronger adjective.

Eve was humiliated. No, that wasn’t quite right either. _Mortified._ Yes, that was the word.

Eve was mortified. 

“Dunno what he sees in her, really.” She stiffened as two knights turned the corner, walking abreast and taking up the whole roadway. “I mean, she’s a bit of a—” He stopped, seeing her; the part of his face still visible beneath the helmet flushed in such a way that she knew he was afraid of having been overheard. “L-Lady Darklaw.” The two jumped aside to let her have the right of way, hands tapping their helmets in a sign of respect. She stared a moment longer, feeling the mortification stirring like an eddy in her breast, and then walked forward without saying a word.

“Maybe he enjoys being the submissive one,” the other replied to his partner, when he thought she was past earshot. She set her shoulders with a grimace. Why did the entire town think her personal business to be the highlight of the morning?

“He’s a lucky one, to snag a levelheaded thing like Ms. Darklaw.” Two women stood on either side of a painted gate, one with a basket of wet clothing on her hip and the other holding a pail of milk.

“Too right.”

“She’ll straighten him out, she will.”

“And he needs it, too, before he gets any older.”

“Aye, that’s just it, isn’t it?” They nodded in time with their words, looking like toy drinking birds pecking eternally into a glass. Unlike the knights, they didn’t seem to bother with whether or not she’d heard their conversation. Instead, they smiled and offered a friendly nod. She returned it, trying to keep her cool even as trepidation trickled down her spine like sweat in the stiff, breezeless spring morning. Mrs. Clothes Basket even had the audacity to wink.

Even when the picture of perfect health, was it possible to just… drop dead? She’d joked before, long before, about using Dimere to vanish from the face of the earth. If it were possible, in any shape or form, she’d gladly pay the price for it. Even her cloak of invisibility wasn’t worth a fillip nowadays.

“Alice and Gregory, sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” A boy danced out of an open gate thoughtlessly, nearly twirling himself right into her. His sister reached out and yanked him back by the shoulder, even as she scowled at his teasing.

“You shut your mouth!” she screeched, face as red as anything. “And watch where you’re going!” The boy opened his mouth for a smart retort, but between her steady gaze and his sister’s silent prompting, he adopted a properly scolded expression.

“Sorry, Lady Darklaw.”

“I’m sorry, Lady Darklaw,” his sister repeated ostentatiously, shoving her brother behind her as she flounced her short curls and gave a short curtsy. “Pay him no mind.”

“There’s no harm done,” she replied, passing on. The boy stuck his tongue out at his sister, the sounds of an impromptu shoving match happening behind her as she walked on.

“You’re just mad because she gets to marry Sir Barnham, and you’re stuck with ugly old Gregory.”

“ _Ugh_!”

Marriage?! Already these people were speaking of marriage, when they weren’t even officially a couple? _Why did I ever accept that dance?!_ She hurried her pace, hoping to reach the Courthouse before stumbling across any more gossip. She passed the marketplace, dodging tents and carts while sticking to the outer edges where she might escape notice. But everywhere she looked, she only saw more and more evidence that _her_ night was the talk of the town.

 Muffet took one disdainful look and turned away, hiding her wobbling chin with her parasol and nearly upsetting an abandoned potato cart. Cinderellia peered from between shabbily-gloved fingers, a cryptic smirk playing on her lips. Bardly hailed her, preparing to burst into song until one look from her had him cowering behind his lute. And then—

“Dearie, dearie me.” _Oh, boy._ She barely turned her head to see Ms. Primstone standing by a fountain, her lips pursed as her baton swung lazily through the air.

“Good morning.” It helped to be polite… or to _try_ and be polite, at any rate.

“Hmm, hmm.” The ominous humming was muffled as she shook her head disapprovingly. 

“May I… help you with something?” Ms. Primstone sniffed haughtily, the baton swooshing as it nearly took the tip off the former High Inquisitor’s nose.

“Pay attention, my dear.” She at least had the courtesy to step closer, her voice lowering to a slightly-above-modest level. “For today’s lesson is this! Dancing… leads to nothing but trouble.” For once, she was certain the eccentric schoolteacher was entirely correct.

“Yes. Thank you for your advice.” She smiled, turning on her heel and cutting down a well-traversed side alley. If she couldn’t get to work properly, she’d just do it improperly and take one of the Shade’s old shortcuts.

She forgot, however, where the alley ended up.

“Oi, here comes Barnham’s sweetheart!” Wild laughter and the musty odor of sweat and ale reminded her that the tavern was the main attraction in this part of town. The men sitting in a line out front weren’t entirely sober yet, the alcohol-induced stupor of the festival night having subsided into normal drunken antics.

“Are you just getting into town, milady? Prithee, tell us: did you stay out _all_ night?”

“So the rumors are true!” A third yelled, loud enough to wake the street if they weren’t already listening from the upper story windows. “He does have the best stamina of all the knights! Woo, lucky dog, that one!” She could feel their eyes on her, too inebriated to worry about her noticing their lewd gazes. She’d never been more humiliated in all her life, stuck between trying to defend herself, ignoring them, and throwing a fit. She finally opened her mouth, having found a good compromise of the three, but the door to the tavern slammed open before she could inhale.

“You mangy dastards! You won’t be shouting those things in front of my establishment; it’s bad for business!” A dagger sunk into the softened wood of the threshold, a silent threat. Its owner snarled, her eyes flashing dark fire as she crossed her arms and stood her ground before them. The men cowered, the smallest nearly tumbling from his seat in an effort to lean as far away as possible. “Make amends to the High Inqui—to Lady Belduke!” she ordered callously.

“Beg pardon, ma’am.”

“Sorry….”

“I ‘pologize, miss.” Properly cowed, they shuffled their feet and scratched at their scraggly chins, too afraid to speak more. Eve, too surprised that at least one person in town remembered her proper surname, didn’t say anything. Rouge eyed them a moment more before turning to address her, digging the dagger out of the wood as she spoke.

“And _I’m_ sorry, for letting these fools sit out here and pollute the public space,” she mused, her fist wiggling the dagger until it came free in a flurry of splinters. “But it’s better to let them sit out here then let them stink up the inside. Hope you won’t hold it against us, and you’ll let Zacky bring you here a night or two. He always spoke so highly of your puzzle skills. I want to try my hand at besting you,” she said conversationally. 

“I—bring me here?” she managed to say, her mind trying to wrap around both the complete change in mood as well as the half-hidden offer in the apology.

“On a date, you know.” She grinned. “It’ll be funny to hear him complain about how I’m hogging you all to myself. He whines sometimes, but I’m sure you already knew _that_.”

“D-date?! But we’re not together!” she blurted, unable to stop herself. The men looked at her strangely, but Rouge only smiled.

“Aye, but you’ll be soon enough, won’t you?” She winked, an odd parody of the housewife. “See you soon.” She disappeared back into the tavern, but her words hung in the air, an omen of things to be. It chilled her to the bone, and she found herself backing away as the blood rushed from her face.

“Miss?” Despite being drunk, the youngest of the men furrowed his brow. “Are you alright? Honest, we didn’t mean nothin’ by it. You know how—” Without waiting to hear him out, she turned and scrambled for the secret path that would lead her to the rear of the Courthouse.

* * *

The door to her shared office slammed shut, the sound echoing twice in the hall and in the empty room. She leaned her forehead against it, hand slipping from the latch as she breathed heavily. She’d run the entire way, bypassing anyone she met even if they called out to her in alarm.

Rude, gossiping busybodies! Was there nothing else of importance today, so that they all had to spend every waking moment thinking only of her private affairs?! It wasn’t any of their business what she did, or who she did it with! The High Inquisitor Darklaw would have never been subjected to such lowbrow treatment! Why should Eve Belduke be forced to take it in stride with a smile?

She turned, resting her back against the cool wood instead. How had Zacharias dealt with it, after being dragged through town by his horse? They’d laughed at him for weeks, nigh on _months_ after that Parade! If it had been _her_ in that situation? Surely, surely one could die of embarrassment. She’d be cold in her grave right about now. _At least then I would be away, where I couldn’t hear any of their little comments._

Oh, if only witchcraft were real!

 _Why did I even submit myself to going to that damn festival?_ Espella had begged and pleaded until she’d been worn down to accept the fact that she wasn’t going to get by with a no. Plus, it had seemed to be so important to her, and Eve couldn’t think about letting her down.

Well, it wasn’t as though the day hadn’t been enjoyable. Even with the crowds pressing in from all sides and the added discomfort of new, unfamiliar clothing, she’d had a good time looking at all the games, sampling the food and spending a day in relaxation. She’d even felt entirely stress-free by the time night had approached.

But if she were honest with herself, the festive atmosphere had only been a part of her good mood. Moving to sit at her desk, she sighed and looked across the room at the eyesore that was a broken, beaten, overcrowded hump of office furniture. _Hnng…._ She’d been singled out on one of the auspicious nights of the year by her officemate, her coworker, her friend. And though it had been unexpected, it hadn’t been unwelcome.

She thought back to that day, when he’d told her that her dress was nice beneath the bell tower. It had been… flattering, that he’d noticed and thought to comment, but even then he’d seemed nervous about something. At the time, she hadn’t been able to figure out what had caused his apparent anxiety, but looking back she could only chalk it up to his apprehension of the dance. Or, rather, the asking.

_May I be so bold as to claim you for the rest of the night?_

Resting her chin on one hand, she frowned at his unoccupied desk. When had he learned to be so smooth? Normally if they weren’t talking about work-related issues, he was either aloof in his answers or, at worst, a stammering mess. Even on her birthday, when all he’d been trying to do was to give her a present, he’d managed to keep her standing in the office for ages while he gathered his nerve. There were days she was astonished he could manage a proper hello. And then, if they strayed too far off topic, he might clam up and refuse to speak at all! She had never been able to understand it, and she considered herself as someone who could read his moods better than anyone else in town.

 There might have been a sort of feminine pride at obviously flustering him into a state, but it was tempered with frustration and confusion. He couldn’t speak of anything but work to her, but he noticed her outfit and commented on it. He played the part of a polite, but distant workmate, and yet he asked her to dance on the night where such a question usually led to encounters of a more intimate—bad choice of words, but true—nature! What did it all mean? He was interested in her, that much was certain, but… why did he not show more interest before yesterday?

_Until tomorrow, Eve._

She buried her face in her hands. What did it mean!? With one move, he’d managed to turn what she had thought was a tame farewell into something that kept her up until nearly dawn! Even now, she could pinpoint the exact spot where his lips had brushed against her knuckles, leaving them tingling. Her mind replayed and replayed those three words, the warm, slightly roughened tone he’d spoken them in sending thrills through her. _Is this what it feels like? To be interested in someone?_

Last night, the burning stares of the townspeople had diminished somewhat when he’d danced with her, his arms holding her steady. But that was then, and this was now. _Perhaps I can sleep in here, or in the dungeons… that way, I won’t have to go home._ It wasn’t as though she didn’t understand _why_ it was of such great importance to them. After all, the illustrious ‘Sir Barnham’ was the town celebrity. Women loved him, men were jealous of him, children aspired to be him. And now he’d not only broken hearts by choosing a potential girlfriend, but he’d also showed interest in his old boss. Even in modern times, such a thing would have been worth gossiping about.

And perhaps she wasn’t the _only_ match being spoken of. It was true that one always heard only what one expected to hear. There were countless other couples, and even if no one else was worth talking about, everyone had seen the Storyteller’s face when his own daughter was out among the dancers. Surely that was worth a side comment or two, right? Right? Not to mention the countless fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers currently teasing or being teased in turn about their choices in households all across town—she’d seen living proof of _that_.

All of that wasn’t so bad… as long as it wasn’t about her.

She glared sullenly at the polished surface of her desk, hearing some sort of commotion upstairs. It sounded as though the theatre troupe were practicing their fight scenes in the foyer above her head rather than in the Courtroom. She knew they could get rowdy if not properly watched, and was preparing to go up and give them a stern warning when she heard a cry of alarm and the sound of heavy running. _What on eart—_

“Miss Eve!” The door slammed open and she jumped to her feet, a gasp smothering in her throat when she found the dough-caked form of her thoughts sliding to a stop in front of her desk, his lack of boots causing him to overcompensate on the smooth stone floor. He panted, resting his hands on her desk as he bent his head and caught his breath. Wafting after him came the faint scent of fresh bread, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything in the course of the morning.

“Zacharias? What’s the fuss?” she asked, looking behind him for some sort of emergency. “Did something happen?” He looked up at her, licking his lips before taking two deeper breaths and striding back to shut the door properly.

“Did you not realize that I’m late?” he asked, the edge of breathlessness still in his voice.

“I—” She’d been so caught up in evading the townsfolk and thinking over her own issues that the concept of punctuality had, for the moment, flew from her mind. “I had not. Did you run here from the bakery?” she asked, unable to stop the hint of laughter from bubbling up at the mental image.

“I didn’t want to make you wait any longer than need be.” He cleared his throat, straightening fully. “I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t think of it.” Her eyes fell on a streak of missed flour along his cheekbone, rising into his hairline as though he’d pushed it back with dusty hands. The urge to clean him—as well as many more images of how that might be achieved—came to mind and she turned away, hiding her flustered expression. There would be enough time for fantasies when she was lying awake on a hard bench in a dungeon cell.

“Hmm.” She hazarded a glance, trying to decide whether or not to bring up the gossip she’d heard. Surely he’d noticed too, right? But he was dense when it came to what others were saying about him—the Wild Ride had taught her that. And he never really cared about his popularity status, so perhaps he just ignored the things he heard in the street.

“Last night you said you had something to show me?” _Last night… we probably ought to speak of that, too._ He sounded sheepish enough that she was sure his thoughts ran in the same direction. Quickly she wracked her brain, trying to remember exactly what she’d wanted to show him. It had been more of a ploy just to get him in the office, if not for help than for company. She found that she preferred him to Espella when it came to her job, since she only wanted to play and talk. And she wasn’t adverse to spending more time in his company, either. At least, not until the only thing she could think of was his lips and her hand…. Her eyes fell to his mouth and she looked away quickly, lest she be caught staring.

“Erm, yes. The fountain.” He wouldn’t know that she’d actually penciled in discussion for the fountain project for next week. She rummaged around in her drawers, finding the old map of Labyrinthia that they’d been using for reconstruction purposes. “Espella had the idea of a fountain commemorating—no, that’s not a good word—as a tribute of sorts for the Witch Trials.” She rolled the map across her desk, the wrinkles edges settling habitually into a flatter shape. “Sort of a memorial, though no one’s died.”

“I see.” He moved to stand next to her, his hand smoothing a crease in the left corner. “Where?”

“I was thinking… here.” They bent together and she pointed to a space on Main Street. “Since this is the main entrance used by tourists, it would be a good place for tour groups as well as a general meeting and information area.” Barnham hummed.

“There are shoppes along this outer perimeter,” he reminded her. “The proprietors won’t want to be moved.” She couldn’t help but let out a small, scornful laugh.

“They won’t have a choice.” His brow wrinkled, but he didn’t say anything. “I’m trying to decide where they can be moved to. Naturally, we want to make sure they have as equal a space as possible compared to their current one, but I’m prepared to make some cuts for the sake of economy.”

 “Outside the city gates?” His fingers danced along the forest that separated the wall from the beach area.

“That’s government property. We’re only sanctioned within Labyrinthia’s borders.” She showed him the dotted line that cut through the forest, circling the back of her father’s old property and the ruins before ending at the dock. “It’ll have to be _in_ town.” They stood in silence, their eyes running over the familiar streets. The cartographer had assured her another map was in the making, as this one was far out of date thanks to repaving and relocating buildings. However, they both knew how the map differed from the streets and made the recalculations in their heads as they looked.

“Here?” she suggested, tapping a space of street near the Archives.

“Too near the garrison.” He tapped another spot, farther off.

“Too near the Courthouse,” she replied, arching a brow.

“’Twould be far better to use _these_ woods then trying to fit shops in the streets near the garrison—”

“The streets are wide enough.”

“They are not.”

“They are, if you’d fill in that garish moat.” His mouth twisted.

“There’d be plenty of room out here if you scrubbed all those old forest pathways.”

“Nature shouldn’t be disturbed for progress.”

“The moat is nature.”

“The moat is an _eyesore_.” They glared at each other, the atmosphere thickening as it always did before a quarrel. Their arguments were legendary to those who worked within the Courthouse. When they really got into it with each other, one could hear their screaming from the stone steps outside. Of course, fights of that intensity were few and far between.

“Then perhaps it would be best not to put a fountain there at all.” His words were tense, even. He was trying to keep his patience. “Let’s put it somewhere else.”

“I won’t. If it’s going anywhere, it’s going right there.” She smacked at the map. “It’s to be a symbol of the town. We’ll have a bell in the belfry, a fountain at the front.”

“We have a city _full_ of fountains already,” he scoffed, waving his hand.

“All the same, I’m having this one too.” She met his eyes steadily, refusing to look away.

“You are the most obstinate female to ever live on this island!” he proclaimed loudly. “If you _will_ have a fountain, just throw it out in your lake for all I care! But I’m not sticking those shops near _my_ garrison.” _Since when is it yours?!_

“And they’re not going near _my_ Courthouse!” He sputtered a moment.

“It’ll just be right in the way!” he finally shouted, throwing up his arms. “Mark my words, the first group to go by in a cart will demolish it!”

“Marked.” She made a check in the air sarcastically before crossing her arms. His face reddened, scowl becoming more pronounced. “Anything else to add before you trot back to the kitchen, bakery boy?”

“ _Bakery **what**_!?” She sneered, pointing at him smugly.

“Oh, forgive me: I meant to say _Sir Apprentice Baker_.” That was his breaking point, apparently. His face twisted in an outright snarl, his brows nearly meeting over his nose and eyes burning with indignation at being mocked. She decided that he looked a little too much like his mutt in the moment.

“Do _not_. Call me that again.” His command spoke of challenge, one she was loath to skip over.

“Oh? And what should I call you?” she asked sweetly.

“You? Sir Barnham will suffice.” It was hard to tell whether he was mocking as well, or if he had actually been somewhat offended by her words. Given the fact that he hadn’t stormed out already, she assumed it was the former and took the bait.

“ _Sir?_ What’s so knightly about kissing a girl’s hand without asking permission first?” His eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion as he tried to discern whether she was in earnest or not.

“What?” She raised her hand, her knuckles facing him.

“You. Kissed. Me. Or was your mind addled? Did you forget already? Even I thought you had more of an attention span than a common squirrel.” His cheeks flamed darker at the insult, but after a moment’s pause he only leaned in. She pushed away, but with her desk at her back there was only so far she could go. He grinned, moving even further as though to tell her a secret.

“I suppose if I’m not courteous in your eyes…I can feel free to kiss you at my leisure?” His smirk widened. “After all, I don’t recall you making a fuss about it. You must have _enjoyed_ the experience.”

“You wouldn’t.” He barked a laugh, one loud, sharp sound.

“Please. I could kiss you here and now, and you wouldn’t do a thing to stop me.” He said it with perfect ease, as though he already knew exactly what her thought processes were. He waited for her to answer, and it took a surprising amount of willpower on her part not to take him up on that bet. Something about arguing only made her more interested in him—perhaps because here he was at his best, with no stammering pauses or awkward silences as he fought to preserve the status quo between them.

Outside of an argument, there was no way he’d ever claim to do anything to her without her permission. He was ‘nobler’ than that, and even if he hadn’t been a knight, he always struck her as a man who’d want her more comfortable around him than anything, and would be worried of offending or hurting her accidentally. Or it could be just another odd lesson from his supposed youth. She wouldn’t be surprised to hear a “Kissing girls leads to nothing but trouble”.

He leaned away when she said nothing, clearly thinking that he was the victor. She surprised herself when her hands fisted in his collar, jerking him back down to glare eye to eye. There was a quick flash of something—excitement, anticipation—that shone on his face before it was hidden behind the neutral mask he usually wore.

“Well? Do it, then.” She grinned savagely. “Prove it.” The fibers of his shirt were soft and well worn, a testament to how often it had been washed. It rubbed against her fingers, warm from his skin.

His hands hit the desk behind her, bending her farther back as he leaned down with half-lidded eyes. Thankfully he wasn’t faltering; despite her willpower and the need to appear unaffected, her breath quickened and her heart pounded anxiously, wondering if he really _would,_ and if she’d be able to push him away once he started. She had a sneaking suspicion that it would be near impossible.

He paused when their noses touched, a soft puff of air hitting her lips as he let out a chuckle. She lifted her lids, unsure of when they’d started to slide closed, and saw his haughty smile. He brushed their noses intentionally before pulling back, untangling her fingers from his shirt and smoothing the collar in one swift movement.

“And chance your displeasure?” he asked lightly, hands running down his apron to settle it back into place. “Never.” The words hit her like a brick and she sagged in disappointment, something like annoyance buzzing in her chest. He looked her over appraisingly and, satisfied with what he saw, offered her a courtly bow. “I’m due back at the bakery, milady. I’m sure you can decide for yourself whether a fountain is so important.” He turned, offering a backhanded wave as he walked to the door.

“Zacharias!” She was proud that her voice barely trembled. He turned, and she pointed to her cheek.

 “You’ve got a little something on your face, Sir Apprentice Baker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: 
> 
> An Eve-Centric Chapter… so said my afterword of yesteryear.


	4. Eve and Espella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Espella is a very enthusiastic friend... but she's also Arthur's daughter.

            “Eve, are you in?” Espella’s voice rang down the hall before the blonde made her appearance. “I’ve come to call,” she added unnecessarily.

            “In here!” Eve called back, her neck cracking when she lifted her head for the first time in hours. After yesterday’s impromptu ‘argument’—if it could truly be called such—she hadn’t made any sort of headway in her work. Her mind had been distracted, lingering on thoughts of the so-called bakery boy. If sitting slumped over, staring into space had been her duty, she might have excelled.

            She’d tried to come in earlier to make up for lost time. That’s what she told herself, anyway. No matter how much she tried to squash it, a nagging little voice in the back of her mind pointed out that she seemed to have left just in time to miss a chance meeting in the streets. There were no winking housewives at 4 am, when the first hints of dawn were barely coloring the horizon. She’d heard the bell ring for noontide some time ago and if her neck was any indication, she’d been in the same position for hours.

            Espella’s visit might have been the excuse for a break that she sorely needed. Storyteller knew—both literally and in the figurative vernacular—that she wouldn’t take one for the sake of her health alone.

            “Come in,” she called at the first sight of blonde plaits, waving her over to the desk and putting her quill back in its cute holder. Espella paused long enough to grab Barnham’s worn chair, the sound jarring as she dragged it over the stone to sit cattycorner to Eve’s desk. “Mrs. Eclaire must have had a break in the afternoon crowd if you’re here,” she said conversationally, ignoring the urge to pick up another budget request and begin looking it over.

            “Eve, ‘tis already evening.” Espella tilted her head disapprovingly. “You work too much.”

            “I work until the work’s done,” she replied glibly.

            “Which is never!” Espella laughed. “Working in the bakery has taught me that, at least.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I was glad to leave. Sir Barnham made a big mistake and Aunt Patty went spare. She’s been in a state all afternoon.”

            “Sorry for him,” she replied, not feeling sorry in the slightest. Served him right, after the way he’d been to her yesterday. Not to say that she hadn’t deserved it, calling him those names, but… the thought of the kiss-that-really-wasn’t still had her disappointed.

            “You ought to be,” Espella sighed, resting her chin on her hands. “I had to get out of there before I did something to set her off. I doubt I could eat an absolution roll so soon after lunch.”

            “A-absolution roll!?” What would such a thing even look like? Eve blanched, and Espella took her incredulity for confusion.

            “Y’know, absolving. For your transgression.” Eve continued to stare, wondering if the redheaded baker might be just a bit dodgy. “First you have to make it—this giant roll,” Espella explained, holding her arms with fingers outstretched. Such a thing, if really that big, wasn’t a roll. It was a rock. “Doesn’t matter what you did, just that you really messed things up, or insulted the bread, or something. Anyway, you have to bake it yourself while she watches, and then you have to eat every bite!”

            “You don’t say,” Eve murmured faintly. She was glad, suddenly, that Mrs. Eclaire had never been pegged for a potential Shade. She doubted she could have dealt with such a soul.

            “It’s huge, really. You feel like crying in the end.” Espella paused. “I think Maya was the only one who managed to get through the entire thing without begging once. But then, she always seemed to eat her weight in food, so maybe she didn’t mind.”

            “I-I see.” Perhaps Ms. Fey was stronger in spirit than she had thought her to be. At the least, she had to be much more than a very, _very_ silly girl.

            “It works, though. You never forget what mistake you made after eating one.” Espella peered at her thoughtfully. “You don’t want a part-time job at the bakery too?” she asked teasingly.

            “No, I think I have my hands full as it is.” Eve tried to stack some papers, her voice light and casual. “So Zacharias had to bake his own death in bread, you say?”

            “Hmm? Oh, no. But I thought he might. I’d never seen Aunt Patty so livid. There was water and flour everywhere!” She made a face. “She didn’t even make him clean it up. I think she just wanted everyone out so that she could be alone to clean up.”

            “Oh. I see.” The papers were turning out abysmally, so she focused on the few bare patches of desk she could see. Perhaps it was the edge to her voice that spoke of more than false indifference, or perhaps Espella was feeding off the festival rumors that she was sure abounded in every public place, the bakery included. Either way, the girl leaned forward and bit her lip enticingly.

            “You seem interested in poor Sir Barnham’s woes,” she pointed out with glee. “What did you do to him? He came home yesterday in huff and he hasn’t been right since.”

            “Do? Do??” She turned her face away, trying for an unaffected air. “I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t _done_ anything.” _It’s what he’s done, and not even that._ Espella arched a brow, clearly not buying into her falsehood.

            “Oh really? It just so happens that the entire time he was working yesterday, he kept muttering under his breath about _you_.” Espella grinned slyly. “He worked until closing time, and if Aunt Patty hadn’t have stopped him, he probably would have went straight to dawn! So, what did you _do_ to him?”

            “N-nothing! I didn’t do a damn thing!” She was feeling huffy herself, inching her chair away from where Espella kept leaning towards her. “What you mean, muttering? What did he say?”

            “I don’t know.” Espella kicked one foot against the desk. “He just kept mumbling and then he’d make this face;” She scrunched her own face up. “And he’d say ‘Augh! That—Miss Eve!’” Her voice went deep and gravely as she sought to imitate him, pounding the life out of imaginary dough.  “He doesn’t take teasing well, you know. Which is odd, considering the whole Bouncing Barnham business.” She tapped a finger to her chin.

            “He’s such a child,” Eve scowled, running a hand through her bangs. “He dares to call himself a man?”

            “You get all bent out of shape as well, Eve. Don’t pretend that you don’t. Doesn’t everyone, after all?”

           “I don’t know!” Eve sighed in exasperation, resting her head in her hands and rubbing at her eyes. “Perhaps. But… I suppose I did tease him. Just a bit.”

            “Knew it.” Espella smiled. “What’d you say? C’mon, out with it.”

            “I called him—Sir Apprentice Baker.” She wisely kept the bakery boy comments to herself, knowing that Espella would jump on it faster than she used to jump on the thought of being Bezella. 

            “Eve! How horrible!” Espella chided, laughing so hard that the words could barely be understood. Eve couldn’t help but laugh too, fueled by her mirth, and the circle went round and round until the two were nearly in hysterics. “I ca-can just see his face! Did he go all r-red!?”

            “Like a tomato!” she crowed, and they both dissolved into a new bout of laughter. “But it was awful of me,” she admitted, once they’d calmed down and wiped the tears from their eyes, sides aching. “I shouldn’t have goaded him. It was beneath me.”

            “It was not.” Espella leaned back in her chair, rubbing her stomach. “Besides, I don’t think he minded as much coming from you. If it were anyone else, he might have gotten angry over it.” She sniffed, rubbing at the corner of one eye. “He really is over the top for you, you know.”

            “I-Is he?” She couldn’t keep the slight eagerness from her tone, no matter how she tried. Espella looked at her funnily.

            “He asked you to dance, didn’t he?” She snorted, as if the very question was absurd under the circumstances. “And he’s always staring at you when—” She paused, lips snapping shut. “Never mind.”

           “Staring? When?” Espella shrugged, eyes tilting up in her most blatant tell. She wasn’t a great liar. “Espella, _when_?”

            “When… but never mind all that!” she said suddenly, clapping her hands. “Just trust me. Anyway, you should come with me to visit Dad. He says he never sees you anymore.”

            “Well—” It was true; she hadn’t seen the Storyteller recently. Not since a brief hello at the festival, anyway. They hadn’t been close since the final witch trial; both parties had been dealing with hurt feelings and broken trust. He’d even called her evil at one point, though he’d later retracted it with a formal apology in private. And it didn’t do to ignore the old man, even if they could never—at least, not in the foreseeable future—be as close as they once were. She knew that deep down, he was trying his best to right the wrongs he’d inflicted on everyone. No matter what happened, she couldn’t bring herself to deny him the chance to make things better, if not right. “Yes. Of course I’ll go.”

            “Great!” Espella leapt to her feet. “C’mon! Dad’ll be so happy!”

            “Just give me a moment to set my things in order, and we’ll go.”

* * *

It was a shorter walk to the Audience Room than it was for Eve to get home, but at her behest they skirted the town and used as many of the old Shade shortcuts as they could to stay out of the ‘public eye’. As they did, Eve explained the behavior of the day before, only to find Espella less sympathetic than she might have thought a best friend would be.

            “I don’t see what the matter is.” Espella looked both ways before striding confidently from one alley to another. “Everyone becomes talk of the town once in their life. It’s just your turn for once, isn’t it?” They paused as Mary, her goats in a messy line behind her, made their way from the main market towards her stable.

            “You’re just bolder than I am, is all.” Eve pursed her lips, but Espella was too interested in the goats to watch her. “Besides, it’s not like we’re even a couple.”

            “Hmm?” She was nearly slapped in the face by Espella’s braids as her head whipped around. “But you will be.” Her response so mirrored Rouge’s that, once again, Eve was speechless for a reply. When she didn’t receive a direct reply, Espella’s hands fell on her hips and she scowled in a startlingly Patty-esque manner. “Eve Belduke, if you didn’t want to be a couple, why did you accept his hand and agree to dance?”

            “It’s not—that’s not—I don’t—” Eve stammered, looking anywhere except towards her friend’s narrowed, piercing eyes. “It’s more complicated than it seems.”

            “Doesn’t seem that complicated to me,” Espella quipped. “I danced too, you know. I think you’re just being silly.”

            “E-Espella!”

            “Well, you are. It’s rude to keep him second-guessing, anyway.” She stopped in the middle of the alley, turning on her heel and pointing threateningly at him. “I’ve grown fond of Sir Barnham during his stay.  If you don’t want to court him, you should let him down as soon as possible. You tell him, or I’ll _make_ you tell.”

            “Espella, trust me… I’ll handle it myself.”

            “You better.” Her face morphed from anger to concern. “I don’t want his heart to be broken, but that’s better than you stringing him along for months because you won’t tell him your true feelings. That won’t end well.” She furrowed her brow. “Promise me you’ll take care of it.” Eve put her fist over her heart, a mimicry of the knight’s vow.

            “I solemnly swear it, on my honor.” She made a face. “Honestly, what sort of woman do you take me for, Espella?”

            “A shy one.”

            “Oh, hush,” Eve snapped, but Espella was already around the corner and crossing the bridge to the garrison gates. She gave a cheerful greeting to the knights guarding the gate, both of which tapped their helmets in answer and offered Eve a habitual bow/salute.

            “Hello,” one greeted when she drew closer. She could never tell them apart with their armor, and had a hard time even when they were in plainclothes. Still, she offered a polite, neutral greeting. “Are you here for Zacharias?” he asked. She bristled, but he didn’t seem nosy and she forced the hair on her neck to relax. “He’s training at the moment, so you might be ready to hang around until they’re through.”

            “N-no. I’m here to see the Storyteller.” Perhaps she didn’t need to sound so harsh, but she was used to taking an authoritative tone with the knights. Still, she tried to be better than coldhearted or aloof, and this sounded downright mean. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m visiting him this evening with Ms. Cantabella.”

            “Well, he ‘ent here.” The guard sounded a little offended, but what she could see of his face was as expressionless as ever. _They train them well, these knights._ “Audience Room is locked up while he’s out, but he should be back soon. You ought to go watch the grappling while you wait.” He turned to watch the moat, clearly dismissing her in the most polite way possible.

            “Grappling?” Espella repeated with interest, waiting for Eve at the threshold that separated the bridge from the garrison grounds. “You didn’t have to be so rude,” she added in an undertone when Eve passed her. “He was just asking.”

           “He didn’t have to ask it like that,” she replied defensively. “But I didn’t mean to sound rude,” she admitted. They turned in the wide lane, following the grooves of the Parade floats as they made their way to the inner circle of buildings. In the main training area, there was a crowd of shirtless, dirty men cheering on something they couldn’t see. Her eyes widened, taken aback by the sight while Espella squeaked in surprise before breaking into helpless giggles.

            “I didn’t expect them to be out in the open like that,” she said between her fingers. Eve couldn’t say that she _had_ ; she knew that they trained often, but she’d never made a habit of walking through the garrison unless it was on official business, and often at night. She hadn’t seem them… _utilizing_ … the training grounds in this way before. It took her a moment to realize that Espella was still speaking. “…grappling?”

            “I suppose that it _would_ be hard to throw your opponent to the ground while wearing sheets of metal.” She took a good look at the heavily muscled men, some her own age while others middle-aged and a scant few beyond, grey creeping into their hair. There were certainly a few in there that were worth an appreciative glance, but none of them gave her the same hot rush that came from being near her coworker.

            “But wouldn’t that be when they needed to—oh, but look! Sir Barnham’s about to win!” And then without further ado she was elbowing her way between the heaviest, sweatiest men, her hand still clasping Eve’s wrist and carrying the unwilling woman forward. She managed to crane her head over Espella’s, looking towards the center of the circle where something was happening.

            Espella was right—Barnham had the upper hand. He was locked in tense combat with a man about his own build, with a wiry black beard and sharp eyes. The two weren’t speaking, only growling fiercely as each tried to topple the other to the trodden ground. It seemed that endurance was the test here: the one that lost strength first would be the one to fall, as they were otherwise evenly matched.

            For a long moment they seemed at an endless stalemate, with neither man doing anything more than stand there with straining muscles. And then, with a triumphant shout and a quick movement—too quick for her to make out more than the general direction—the bearded man was on his back in the dust. The rowdy jeering of the men watching the fight rose in a mighty crescendo for the victor, who wiped his sweaty brow, leaving streaks of dust as he grinned. Espella joined in, hopping in place and waving like she was a spectator at a proper tournament instead of cheering on a training session.

            “All right, Sir Barnham! I knew you could do it!” Barnham, halfway in the act of helping his opponent off the ground, looked straight ahead. His opponent craned his head backwards, and the men in the circle finally realized that there were females in their midst. They parted, leaving a gap between the clean girls and themselves as they began to fidget nervously, whispering to themselves.

            Eve heard her name being thrown around, but her eyes met Barnham’s and she had more important things to worry about. He helped draw the man to his feet, his eyes never leaving hers, a stormy, irate look still brewing deep within them. He adjusted his pants, waving at another knight who came forward to take his place in the ring. She didn’t begrudge herself the quick glance at his body, tan chest bare and glistening with sweat, pale scars crisscrossing the skin.

            “Good afternoon.” Curt, precise, slightly cool. He was still agitated from their argument. It didn’t surprise her; a fight as Inquisitors often had weeks of them giving each other the cold shoulder before either silently compromising or dropping the matter entirely. But this wasn’t exactly something that could be dropped, could it? Oh, the fountain was one issue, of course. But this wasn’t about the fountain. Not anymore. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

            “I came to see the Storyteller,” she explained, forcing her eyes up from the dip at his abdomen to settle on his face. She drew herself to full height, ignoring the louder whispers from around them. She felt Espella’s eyes on the back of her head. _Don’t worry. I’m handling it just fine._

            “We thought it best to stay away from the bakery,” Espella laughed. “Aunt Patty still isn’t in the best mood, and I doubt she wants company.” He looked over Eve’s shoulder at her, his cheeks turning the faintest pink.

            “A good idea,” he agreed at last. “I was lucky they were training today. ‘Tis good to keep my body in top shape, since my brain is little more than that of a—what did you call it, milady? Ah, yes.” He leaned in, voice lowering. “A common squirrel.”

            “If you recall, _Sir Knight_ , I only insulted your attention span in that manner. I said nothing of your brain.” They glared at each other, heat rising, and she wondered if he’d start another fight even among his comrades. Then, almost quicker than she could catch, his gaze fell to her lips. _Got you_. She licked her lips, swiping her tongue slowly enough that he could follow its track.

            “Well, if you excuse us.” She bowed her head at him politely. Espella tilted her head in confusion before dismissing whatever thought puzzled her, offering him a wave.

            “Eve.” A hand caught her wrist, warm palm burning her skin and leaving it gritty with dust. She turned, and it fell away before she could react.

            “Yes?” He opened his mouth before blinking, turning to look over his shoulder. She couldn’t see what face he made towards the other knights, but they all paled and suddenly became busy with staring at something near the stables, in the sky, near their feet, or walking away entirely with mumbled excuses.

            “I— ” He turned back, their eyes met, and it seemed his determination was lost. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then his eyes slid closed as he threw back his shoulders, clasping his hands behind his back. She waited for him to finish, staring at his stern face, clenched jaw, flexing biceps. One minute passed, an eternity of seconds she counted off in her head. Then two… three…. The nearest knights peered at them interestedly, but they could have been two breathing statues in the middle of the garrison.

Eve frowned, but it was Espella who broke the silence.

“Sir Barnham!” she yelled, her voice echoing across the sea behind the high wall. Everyone in the nearest radius jumped, turning to look at them with or without their excuses. Barnham nearly fell, eyes going wide as he looked over in blatant astonishment. “Out with it, _if you please_!” He clicked his heels, standing at attention and looking eerily like the knights at the gate.

“Miss—Eve, accompany me Friday next! I mean, if you could! No, if you _would_.”

“Accompany?” Her heart lurched. Was this the date? Was this what everyone had been waiting for? Now that it was here, she was too startled to either accept or deny. “Where?” _What a silly question_. But he seemed just as confused as she.

“Ah, erm… I don’t know.” He deflated slightly. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Oh.” Again they fell into silence, this time tense and awkward. She heard a couple of sniggers in the crowd and a blush covered her face before she could fight it back.  _By the Story, just let me just sink into the ground itself_ ….

“Look.” He stepped closer, ducking his head to speak where they couldn’t be overheard. He paused long enough to shoot Espella a glance, but the blonde had no inclination to leave. He scowled, but she stared him down defiantly until Eve looked over her shoulder and motioned with her hand. Espella rolled her eyes, but turned away and meandered over towards the Audience Room stairs.

“What.”

“I’ve done some thinking and I think we need to talk.” He spared another cursory look towards Espella’s retreating back. “Privately.” She thought that she had a proper look of barely concealed annoyance on her face, but something more must have shown through as he added quickly, “Nothing bad! I mean… maybe we should talk about this.” He waved his hand between the two of them. “Somewhere that we can go three minutes without being interrupted.”

“Oh. Well, I accept then.” That was actually quite grounded for someone like him. _Mature_ …. His face lightened considerably, and she met his smile with a small one of her own. Then, out of nowhere, the shyness crept upon her like a plague. What sort of talk would that be? Any two consenting adults would of course need to go over their issues and whether or not they wanted to be a couple. But at the same time… what would she say? What would _he_ say? She didn’t know her own feelings yet, much less know how to speak of them openly and concisely! _I shouldn’t be like this_ , she told herself firmly. _I’ve known him for ages now. There’s no reason I should feel like I can’t be honest with him._

“Then Friday, in front of the bakery at—the stroke of ten?”

“That sounds fine.” She nodded, and then they stood awkwardly until Espella bounced back, clearly watching the scene closely.

“Sorry to butt in,” she chirped, not sorry in the slightest, “but Dad’s here and we _do_ need to be going. See you at home, Sir Barnham!” She waved, fingers wiggling as she grabbed Eve and began to drag her to the stairs. “Don’t stay out _too_ late, or Aunt Patty will have your head for sure!”

“Oh, right. See you.” He stood in the middle of the path, waving hesitantly.

“Goodby—Espella, _wait_ a moment!” She shook her hand free as they reached the top of the stairs, the wide, flat stone of the wall’s pavilion allowing her some extra traction. Espella grinned, bending over to look her in the eye as she rested her hands on her knees.

“You couldn’t keep your eyes off Sir Apprentice Baker-the-Second!” she crowed, thankfully keeping her voice lowered to an acceptable limit.

“Shhh!” Eve looked over her shoulder at the empty stairs, and the men standing guard at the bottom. “Someone’s going to hear you… and besides, you’d look too if you’d never seen them in anything more casual than an overshirt.”

“Oh? I guess I’m just used to it.” She peered over the opposite wall, to the roofs of the town and the Archive’s sloping peaks.

“What?!”

“What?” she repeated, arching a brow. “He walks around shirtless all the time upstairs. It took him all of two months to get into the habit.” Her smile grew sinister. “Come by when the shop is closed and I’ll get you a front row seat, Eve.” She winked. “Aunt Patty says it’s alright as long as he can keep his pants up.”

“K-keep his _pants up_?” She felt faint. It didn’t help that a pang of what could only be pure jealousy pierced her straight through the heart, that Espella could see something like that without being the slightest bit affected. If it were her, she would be permanently red, and she’d certainly never be able to look him in the eyes again. _But what would he look like?_ Oh, traitorous mind, and those terrible… terribly delightful images! 

“Oh, yes. They’re a little big on him, now that he doesn’t work out and keep his muscles in shape, or whatever you call it. Muscle mass? Anyway, they slip and slip, and sometimes they _almost_ —”

“Okay, okay! I get the picture!” She covered her face in mortification. The sight of him in his training pants, slid down partway from the grappling to show the tapering stomach and the V-line rising from his waistband—and with softer sleeping pants?

  _Can I go drown myself in the moat, Espella? Is that allowed on this outing?_

* * *

It was too easy to let father and daughter dominate the conversation. It was even better that she wasn’t bored out of her mind; on the contrary, it wouldn’t let her be bored. Over and over the dancing, the arguing, and the talking all had their time in the forefront, only for the cycle to start again. She pondered, debated, worried, accepted, and pondered some more. All she had to do was nod on occasion and she didn’t seem to be inattentive.

“Espella, _please_.” She resurfaced for a breath of air, forcing her thoughts back as she stirred her cooled tea and took a sip. There was a hint of lavender, just the way she liked, and she felt a soft pang. Arthur remembered such details, but he seemed to forget others in the big picture. Her father had been used to it, seeing something worth redemption in the man. She had never found it, but when she drank tea like this, knowing that he remembered her favorite flavor, she found it hard to get a solid footing on her emotions towards him. “I told you, it’s confidential. It’s a breach of security to look at the townsfolk’s personal files.”

“All I’m saying is that there _had_ to have been a Mr. Eclaire at some point, right? Otherwise she wouldn’t be _Mrs._ Eclaire.”

“Perhaps, dear, perhaps.” The Storyteller laced his fingers, looking out the high arched windows. “But it’s called a ‘confidentiality clause’ for a reason. They submitted to the experiment, and in return I promised to uphold certain things….” He trailed off suspiciously, stroking his small beard. “Privacy being one of them.” 

“What about Zacharias?” The words left Eve’s mouth before she could think. “Did you promise to uphold his privacy?” Espella smirked and she looked away, stirring her tea.

“Never mind him,” Espella interrupted. “I don’t give a fillip about Sir Barnham; I want to hear about Aunt Patty!” Eve didn’t reply, chewing on her lip as she thought. She often wondered, as she had for over ten years, what sort of people had been tempted to sign up for the experiment. She knew that Arthur’s stipulate was unhappiness: only people utterly despairing of their current lives were considered for the government test facility. _What had **his** life been, then? _ The thought of him despairing over anything caused her heart to clench painfully.

“There’s not much I can say openly!” The former Storyteller was almost pleading with his daughter now, his fatherly façade cracking as easily as ever. Espella lowered her eyes, pouting, and he sighed. “Look, if you _promise_ to keep it here in this room… I know I can trust Eve to secrecy. But Espella, you have to swear that you’ll stay quiet.”

“Oh, I do!” Espella raised her right hand, placing it solemnly over her heart. “I swear upon my life that I won’t tell a single word to anyone else!”

“Even to Mrs. Eclaire, understand? If she wants to know of her past, she knows where to look. I don’t need you bringing up any unsettling memories for her.” Espella blinked, eyes widening as she considered the consequences of accidentally letting something slip. “Are you prepared to keep utterly silent?”

“Yes, I am!” It took only a heartbeat for her stubborn determination to win over any misgivings.

“Eve? Would you like to leave the room?” At least he was giving her the courtesy now, instead of forcing her to bear the weight of those secrets. She stared at her tea, unable to look him in the eye.

“I’m well. Go ahead.”

“Well then.” He took another sip of tea, settling in his chair. “Mrs. Eclaire had a husband. His death was her main reason for signing up for Project Labyrinthia.”

“Oh no, what happened?” Espella clasped her hands under her chin, distraught.

“I’m to understand that he had a very debilitating illness, for which there was—is—no cure.” Arthur stared at his hands. “A degenerative disease. She had plenty of time to prepare, but after his death she was very distraught. She wanted to forget. Most of them did.” He nodded to the windows, where the setting sun cast a soft light over the town.

“Aunt Patty….” The blonde blinked rapidly, wiping at her eyes with discreet fingers. “I didn’t know….”

“Not a word, Espella.” Her father tapped a finger to his lips. She shook her head quickly.

“No, never! Not about that.” She glanced at Eve, who still sought answers in the depths of her teacup. “Well, what about Sir Barnham, then?” Eve lifted her head curiously, hating herself for feeling so eager.

“Zacharias Barnham… I don’t remember much about him. He wasn’t a talker.”

“Somehow, I can’t see that.” Eve mumbled through her fingers, trying to crane her face as far away from Espella’s prying eyes as she could. “Considering the way he is now.” The Storyteller burst into laughter.

“Well, he hasn’t changed _that_ much!” He chuckled again. “None of them do. They’re still _themselves_ , deep down. I can hypnotize someone, but that spark that makes them who they are? That’s untouchable. As of yet,” he amended thoughtfully. “It would surely be something to be able to change a person’s _being_ , as morally inept as it sounds. But,” he added, “Sir Barnham is as noble now as he was then.”

“You mean even if he wasn’t a knight, he acted like one?” Espella asked. He nodded.

“Of course! Didn’t Mr. Wright go on to be a brilliant Defender, even after being inducted to the town as a baker? Did he not still fight for justice, even though to him, bread was all he knew?”

“Oh… you’re right!” Espella smiled, fingering her pendant. “He did his best for me, even though he was nervous at first. And he said it felt natural to him, later.”

“To him, fighting for justice _is_ natural for Mr. Wright, just as being everything that is Espella is natural for _you_. The inner light in all of us shines through, no matter how hard we try to bury it under what we’re told to be. That’s one of the best truisms the Project taught Newton and I.”

“That’s lovely... don’t you think, Eve?”

“What?” She sat up. “Oh, I… yes, I suppose so.” That was all well and good, but it told her nothing more about Barnham than she didn’t already know. She was still curious, but before she had a chance to speak, the Storyteller cut her off.

“That’s enough about the past. Knowing you two, I’m going to say something neither of you should hear.” 


	5. An Inside Outing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It rains, and Barnham learns the definition of "Slow Burn" ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: 
> 
> Still doing the 2 chapter thing, I guess? Also, rating bump here—you were warned. This is a little heated compared to the old chapter....

This time, he knew it to be a dream.

            How could one knowingly be trapped in a dream, and yet unable to control it? He’d heard tell of dreams where, just by knowing that the world wasn’t real, one could make amazing things happen. And yet here he was, locked in his dream, and unable to manipulate anything. Luck was against him.

            Eve stood before him, and he knew it was a dream because she never wore the dark cloth robe of the Shades. The Eve—the Great Witch, rather—of the waking world wore ornate garb, the elaborate headdress and yards of brocade signifying her status as queen of the Eldwitch Wood. But this was Eve, plain, pretty Eve, with the hood drawn over her lovely hair and her eyes shining their bright, gorgeous color.

            He stood in his sleeping clothes, pants dragging as usual around his lower waist and bare feet against the slippery tiles of the garrison bathing house. It was hot, steamy hot, the air thick and hard to breathe; condensation clung to him like sweat, dampening his hair and rolling down the back of his neck. For some reason he wasn’t ashamed of his bared chest, nor did he feel the need to hike his pants back up around his waist.

            He took a step towards her and he _knew_ that it wasn’t the real Eve, only because she pulled back her hood and her shoulders were bare, her hair undone and spilling from the hood. Eve didn’t wear her hair down often, unless it was a special occasion, and he doubted this was. It occurred to him that she was bare beneath the robe as well and that he could— _would_ be allowed—to pull it from her. To see the nothing beneath.

            Another step put him directly in front of her, the knowledge that comes with dreams telling him that he could touch her, here, in any way he pleased. The fact that he could, theoretically, do whatever he liked wasn’t lost on him, even as he did nothing more than brush the hair back from her pale, perfect face. His skin was wet and warm, and hers ought to have been slick as well, but it was dry. Dry, soft, and so, so smooth, so much so that it frightened him to touch it with his work-roughened hands, lest he somehow ruin it with his calloused fingers.

            Her lips parted slightly at his touch, eyes closing, and the _need_ hit him like a full-on tackle by the heaviest man in the garrison. It was a yearning, deeper than anything he’d felt before, one that was constantly kept in check during his wakeful hours. It was something selfish and greedy, a fierce wanting; he wanted her, not just in this self-centered fantasy but in the real world as well, wanted to touch her whenever he liked, to see her blush and know he was the cause, to lose himself in her arms because she wanted him, too.

            “Zacharias…” Her tiny, slender fingers found his chest, pads barely pressed against his skin; he shivered still, more at the thought that she willingly touched him than at the act itself. “Please.”

            “Yes?” His voice was rough and hard to push out, coming out in a breathless sound just above a whisper. Her hands left his chest and took his from her shoulders, sliding them down the hidden curves of her body before resting them at her hips. Her eyes stared up insistently, begging silently for him to do what he wanted more than anything else. It was those eyes of hers that made him come undone, every damn time; they were so expressive, had _always_ been, even from the first brief meeting when he was introduced as a possible Inquisitor. She had hid everything from them all, her mind, her name, her emotions, but she’d never been able to fully control her eyes.

            His hands bunched the fabric of her robe, fingers gathering folds as the hem began to slowly travel up her legs. Long, beautiful legs that he’d only seen bare once, at the Spring Festival. He wished that he’d been bold enough to sit by her, to put his hand on her knee, or help with her sandal, some excuse to feel the delicate skin just for curiosity’s sake, to know what she felt like beneath the tight leather and countless buttons of her uniforms.

            “What do you want?” She shifted closer, breath fluttering against his pulse as she leaned up to whisper in his ear. He paused long enough to tense, willing his body under control as fire spread through him at the sound of her voice lowered and warm with desire. He had to take his time with her, enjoy her as a proper lady and not something quick and dirty to be bragged about at the tavern while Rouge wasn’t in earshot. What did he want? _You, just you: dance with me, want me, lo—_ he stopped himself, everything from his ears to his toes burning up with something far more potent than hellfire.

            “Love has no place on the battlefield.” Now she was toying with him, her nails scratching teasingly at the nape of his neck, body pressed against him and shifting enticingly with just the rough fabric barrier between them. He wanted to correct her, to say that he only ever said that _romance_ had no place there, that those who fought for love were to be admired, but romance was best done at home, in private, and he wasn’t—never had been—the type to know exactly how to sweep a woman off her feet in the first place, and yet….

            “Are we fighting?” She laughed at him, something the real Eve would do, light and unoffended as she let him pull them both to the ground, kneeling between her thighs as he pushed the robe up to reveal more and more of her soft skin. He leaned down, pressing his face to her stomach and breathing her in, red flowers and something that he now knew to be ink, having made the correlation many years too late between the scent of the Story and the fragrance that lingered around her like a perfume.

 He wanted to taste her, to kiss her navel, swipe his tongue to each hip and back, to chance her displeasure—or the opposite—and go lower to sample her very being, to know her like no one had ever known her—ever would, for he’d make sure that after him, any other man would pale in comparison.

            _Amor est vitae essentia._

_Without you, I die._

“ _Espella_!”

            _Espella?_ His eyes opened, even though they’d been open, and he saw nothing more exciting than the sloped roof of his bedroom. There was a fierce thundering of small feet up the stairs, and a door close to his own bedroom door slammed shut with a crack loud enough to hurt his ears. **_Espella_** _!?!_ He sat up in bed, reaching behind him in one smooth motion and chucking his pillow at the closed door before running his hands through his hair, growling under his breath.

            “I was _so damn close_!” he snarled, mentally wishing ill on the blonde _and_ the baker for disturbing his sleep. Already the dream was slipping through his fingers, the emotions rolling away and leaving behind nothing but frustration and regret, along with the same tinges of guilt that arose in greater amounts every morning he woke after dreaming of her.

He looked up to see Constantine on high alert, his little hackles raised as he bared his teeth and looked around for the source of the attack, or whatever other clamor that so angered his master. He reached out and let him sniff his hand before petting him, pushing the fur back down until the ‘attack dog’ was a wriggling puppy once more, wanting his morning belly rub.

            He looked out the window and sighed, seeing luck really _was_ against him this morning. Rain beat at the window in sheets, a waterfall forming from the overhang to pound at the cobblestones below. He opened the window, his sweaty skin relieved by the cool breeze, and stuck his head out as far as he could without getting wet. From the wall to the horizon and back again was a mass of rolling storm clouds with no end in sight.

            _I can’t ask Eve to walk in this._ He slumped against the casement in disappointment. He’d been rehearsing all evening the night before, trying to get in his head what he wanted to say to her. How fighting solved nothing, and if the dancing hadn’t been proof enough, he wanted to officially ask her on a date. Gathering his feelings had proved more difficult, and he was hoping that he could articulate them without sounding like a fool in front of her.

            He sighed, thinking about the dream while he could. Those feelings had been easier to garner, to understand and accept. They were primitive, almost dark with how all-encompassing they felt. He wanted her. He knew that. But he didn’t want her _just_ for the lust that burned in his mind, either. Any other woman could have all her physical traits, but it wouldn’t be _Eve_ , the brilliant woman, the strong woman, the one in whom he’d met his match.

            She wouldn’t be _his_.

            He sighed again, rubbing his tired face. It wasn’t right to think of her as his, not when they hadn’t even had one date. But he wanted to be hers, too. And when they’d fought, when he’d so brutishly—terrible, terrible! His temper had always gotten the best of him, and that had been no exception—said that he’d kiss her even without her consent: well, she hadn’t run from the challenge, had she? If he judged the situation correctly, she’d been bluffing. She’d _wanted_ the kiss, and would have accepted it gladly. Did that mean—did he have hope? After all, she had danced with him. Turning him down then would have been the prudent thing to do. But she hadn’t.

            A lone figure turned the bend, navigating the washed out gulley that used to be a street as best it could. It stumbled, buffeted by the wind, and nearly fell face first into the waterlogged ditch before righting itself with a mighty effort. By the bulging side beneath the shapeless cloak, he took the figure to be that of Lettie Mailer. It made sense; only those with official business would dare face the elements today. Ms. Mailer was not one to let a little weather stop her from the completion of her appointed rounds, however detrimental to her health it might be. He considered, for a brief moment, that she would just use the exclusion as an excuse to be taken care of by Ms. Greyerl.

            “Oi! Ms. Mailer? Ms. Mailer!” The wind carried his words away, and he huffed before leaning further out the window, his bare chest more on display than he cared to have it. “ _Ms. Lettie Mailer!!?_ ” Finally she heard him, a flash of green hidden quickly by the hood of her cloak as she looked up towards the window. She changed course, slogging her way across the street and stopping beneath the overhang, where she threw the hood back with a cry of relief, shaking her head and spraying water from her wet hair.

            “Sir?!” she shouted up at him as though he were much higher than one story, her face somehow both cheerful and beleaguered. He winced at the loud tone, his ears ringing uncomfortably. He’d often chided the courier on her boisterous voice, both grating and shrill. Espella, ever the sly voice of reason, often pointed out that as long as her outdoor voice was _kept_ out of doors, there should be no reason to complain about her, ‘disturbing the peace’ and all.

            “You’re not headed for the forest, are you?” he asked, eyeing her bag suspiciously. She nodded, letting out a weary breath and wiping her wet face with her equally wet collar.

            “I’ve got to. I’ve eighteen separate letters for Nulwitch hamlet and a package for Lady Darklaw from the Courthouse with a high priority stamp. Official business, I presume,” she added, rubbing her nose. _As gossipy as ever_ , he thought with a scowl, but said nothing of it.

            “’Tis a rough day to be treading the forest’s path,” he said thoughtfully, looking at her mud-caked shoes. The forest was more bog in places than wood, and if one wasn’t careful it was too easy to fall into a hidden bend in the river, or even stray off path and get lost in the winding branches. He squashed the snider voice that declared him to be merely throwing her off course, as though he were more concerned with _her_ wellbeing than if she were really heading towards Lady Darklaw’s manor.

            “Aye,” she agreed, looking towards the sky with a calculating, shrewd expression. “But the mail’s got to be delivered!” She pointed to the heavens, openly challenging the pouring rain. “And nothing’s going to stop me! Besides, I’m the only courier. Who’d do the task, if not I?” she lamented dramatically, a hint of Kira in her forlorn sigh.

            “Well, if you insist on going, would you be so kind as to give Miss Eve a verbal message for me?”  Lettie’s eyes twinkled in anticipation.

            “Oh, of course!” she gushed, sidling closer to the wall and biting the edge of her lip as she looked up at him. He knew perfectly well that whatever he chose to tell her would be spread through Labyrinthia by day’s end, even if no one left their homes. He might as well knock on every door and personally tell each household the message. He ran his tongue over his teeth, choosing his words carefully.

            “Please tell her that we’ll have to reschedule that meeting we spoke of yesterday.” _Unravel **that** riddle if you would, why don’t you? _Eve would know what he spoke of straight away, but it would give Lettie and her little gossiping companions a good time trying to decipher any hidden meanings.

            “A rain check on your ‘meeting’, got it.” She winked up at him. “Don’t want her to risk life and limb like poor little Lettie, do we? Although, rainy days are the best ones for—well, it’s not my place to say.” She giggled, pulling the hood back over her head. “G’day, Sir Barnham!”  

            “And a better one for you, given the circumstance,” he replied as the wind shifted, giving him an impromptu face washing. He sputtered, climbing back through the window and shaking his head like a dog. He pulled the shutters and latched them tightly before shutting the window proper, looking once more at Constantine before skipping his armor and pulling on more modern attire. It was going to be a slow day at the bakery, and with any luck he might get out of some of the more demanding chores.

            He creaked down the stairs and into the bakery, his wave falling short as he saw Mrs. Eclaire already in a state of anger. _Going spare two weeks in a row? Not healthy, Patty._ He kept such thoughts to himself, clearing his throat to announce his presence before heading to the open door. Ms. Mailer was gone, the street properly deserted and rain still pummeling the cobblestones, thumping off the cloth sun barrier and hammering against the shuttered windows.

            “If this rain keeps up,” he said slowly, listening for any sign of anger directed his way, “we’ll be flooded by the morn.”

            “The better for us,” Mrs. Eclaire grunted, slamming a wicker basket on the counter. He recognized it as one of the baskets that held carryout orders, the kind Espella delivered on the weekends for people—elderly, big families, tired workers—that didn’t want to leave home and go to the bakery on their day off. Ordered days in advance, it was guaranteed to be as fresh as going to the store oneself.

            “Ah. I’ll prepare the boat, then.” He turned to see her look at him properly, her eyes crinkling in a tired way.

            “Forgive me, child,” she sighed, adjusting her headkerchief and patting her hair back into place. “I shouldn’t take anything out on you, or anyone else. It’s just—” She broke off, shaking her head.

           “Espella?” he guessed, too easily. He was still slightly miffed that her slam woke him out of his dream. Mrs. Eclaire waved her hand towards the staircase.

            “ _Teenager_ ,” she corrected him. “Though I suppose I’m the closest thing to a mother she’s got now. It’s still hard to argue with her.”

            “Over what?” He never got his answer, as a rumpled, annoyed Espella came through the door and sent a good glare in their direction before grabbing three jellied rolls, stuffing them in her red cloak before turning on her heel and heading back for the stairs.

            “Good morrow, Espella,” he greeted civilly, just to see what she’d say. She tossed her braids, gave him a rather Storyteller-esque expression, and then smiled.

            “Good morrow, Sir Barnham,” she said sweetly, dipping in a little half-curtsy. She paused, looking at Mrs. Eclaire, who ignored her easily and continued filling up the to-go order. _Are you waiting to be noticed? Rather immature, Espella_ , he thought to himself, scratching his chin. He didn’t like being around arguing women, unless he was the one they were arguing with. It was an uncomfortable feeling, since more often than not he was dragged in the middle of it to be a peace mediator… or bait.

            “Sir Barnham?” _And here we go._ He smiled patiently at Espella, asking her with his eyes to _please_ reconsider whatever she meant to do. She either didn’t get the message, or—more likely—ignored him. “Do you think people will _miss_ their bread today? On account of clearly dangerous weather.” There was a solid thud behind him and he half-turned to see Mrs. Eclaire with an expression on her face that spoke of danger. 

            “ _We do not deliver stale bread_.” The words sent a chill straight up his spine, one that had nothing to do with absolution rolls or being whacked over the head with her stout rolling pin. This was something beyond that, and he edged out of the direct line of fire just in case things began to get physical. _Is going back to bed an option at this point?_ Both women were some of the most obstinate people he knew, and he doubted either one of them was willing to step down and let the issue pass for his sake.

            “What do you think, Sir Barnham?” Espella’s smile was becoming deadly quick. He began to sweat, looking from one woman to another.

            “Ah, hmm… well, conditions surely are dangerous?” he stated timidly, feeling all of two feet tall when Mrs. Eclaire’s glower fell on him instead. “B-b-but the bread must be delivered,” he amended placatingly, only to get Espella’s incredulous look of ‘do you really want to cross _me_?’ “T-that’s why…erm, um… I’ll do it.” The tension eased somewhat, and he let his shoulders slump with a sigh of relief. Perhaps he’d get wet, but with the two of them on edge, it was worth leaving the bakery for a bit. He didn’t need to be at the center of their arguments.

            “Thank you, Sir Barnham! I can see why Eve thinks you’re so noble.” She crept up to him and, before he could think, pecked his cheek with innocent affection. It was the kiss of a small child or kid sister, but he still felt his cheeks darken in a flattered blush.

            “She thinks… erm, noble?” Espella winked, but Mrs. Eclaire cut in before she could answer.

            “But Zacharias, you don’t know the way! You’ve never delivered before….” She pressed a mitt to her cheek, looking him over with motherly concern. “You’d better just let Espella do it.”

            “Sir Barnham can do it!” Espella snapped, her voice rising on a shrill edge. “He’s not a child, Aunt Patty!” The baker colored, grabbing an unsliced loaf and taking a knife to it as though it had dealt her a personal injury.

            “I know _that_ ,” she retorted.

            “I don’t mind,” he said quickly, before things could get out of control. _I’ve definitely got to get out of here._ “It’s my job as an—” he hesitated on the word, hearing Eve’s snide tone in the back of his mind, “— _apprentice_ to learn everything about the job. And if I learn it during stormy weather, doing it in sunny weather should be a breeze!” He laughed with a confidence he didn’t feel, the hair on the back of his neck prickling with warning.

            “There are a lot of baskets,” Mrs. Eclaire said, still unsure.

            “And? A basket’s not going to get the best of me. I know Labyrinthia like the back of my hand. I’ll be done and home in time for supper.” She frowned at him, the edge of the knife pressing into her cheek as she thought. “If a man of knightly honor is struck down by a few straw vessels, what is he except unworthy of the task of baker?”

            “I’ll write a list of houses and the numbers, so you won’t have to hunt for their names on the tag,” Espella offered, stuffing half a roll into her cheek. “Hang on, I’ll get some parchment,” she added, voice muffled.

            “Well, if you _insist_.” She nodded to herself. “And there’s no rush, seeing as we should be slow all day. Maybe it _is_ a good time for you to learn delivery.”

            “See?” he said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry!” She buckled slightly under his weight, wagging her finger.

            “Don’t take this job, lightly, you hear?” she snipped. “You’re still under observation after last week’s little mishap!” Her face crumpled at the sight of his crestfallen look. “Oh, don’t take it to heart, love. I’m only teasing. Now go on and put on your boots, and grab my insulated cloak from the basement. It’s large enough for you, I think.”

* * *

            It wasn’t easy work in the slightest. Perhaps in perfect conditions, the deliveries would have been at most enjoyable, at least mind-numbing. But he had to keep stopping beneath overhangs to look at the sheet, trying to decipher Espella’s hurried scrawl as he looked for houses. Then there was the conundrum of getting the baskets out from beneath the waterproof animal skin throw and to the door without them being drenched in the process. More often than not _he_ was drenched, sacrificing himself to keep the basket dry.

            However, a part of him considered the sacrifice worth it. He was always greeted with a blast of fire-warmed air, grateful smiles on everyone’s faces when he handed their deliveries over with a friendly smile. Their happiness helped to fuel his own, even if it was just enough to make it to the next house and get another ‘boost’. He politely turned down invitations to come inside and dry off, waving a farewell before going about his duties with a jaunty whistle. The work kept him busy and preoccupied; he enjoyed working like this, being able to get a little exercise as well as make the Labyrinthians’ lives a little easier.

            Despite even this, the work became nearly unbearable when he was forced into the forest. A few of the former Shades still lived in the ‘hamlet’, for lack of a better word, and they had every right to order bread delivery as anyone in the city limits. The gnarled trees and hanging vines weren’t at all inviting in the rain, but he had no choice: he’d made a vow to Mrs. Eclaire that he’d learn about deliveries, and these were deliveries. _If Ms. Mailer can do it, of course I can._ He had no way of knowing if he’d come across said courier stuck up to her waist in a mire, but he still had to try.

            His boots sank in the mud, sometimes sticking so that he had to stop everything and wrench them out with all his strength. The wet vines slapped at his face, pushing the hood from his head and depositing buckets of water on him when they grew too sodden and fell apart. The cart’s wheels stuck in a particularly boggy patch, and after a few minutes of very unknightly cursing he left it, hoisting the baskets in his arms and continuing with a very literal burden. He pushed his way through the slough, determined to make it just to prove to himself that he _could_.

            The hamlet was cozy in an odd, disjointed sort of way. Thankfully, all his orders were ground-floor, and he didn’t have to worry about hoisting baskets up the wobbly rope ladders to the upper story. He didn’t even want to _think_ about traversing the slippery rope bridges in the rain, anyway. In some places the ground was washed away and he ended up hand-delivering baskets through open doors, through windows, and once via a child held over a makeshift creek formed between the door and the main path (the toddler thought it was the funniest thing, nearly dropping the basket in a fit of giggles).

            Finally there was only one basket left, dangling from the crook of his elbow. He sought shelter in a thick patch of bushes, their spiny leaves catching at his hair as he peered in the fading light at the bottom of the list. There, nearly illegible from the smattering of raindrops smearing the ink, was a lone name: _Eve Belduke, Eldwitch Field, Basket #116._

His breath caught in his throat.

            He remembered, only now, that Eve often ordered for the weekends. He was always helping customers, and Mrs. Eclaire liked to pack the baskets herself, but he knew Espella often saved her house for last so they could visit—more that Espella herself could tarry while catching Eve up on the town’s hottest news. Was it habit that Espella wrote her name last, or was she trying to give him more time with her as well? He couldn’t figure an answer, but it didn’t matter now. She was the last basket.

            How could one be overjoyed and yet apprehensive of seeing a person’s face? After all, he’d been ready to meet with her last night, before the rain put a damper on his plans. Or… had he? Thinking to himself, raindrops plopping on the crown of his head from an oversized leaf, he wondered if he hadn’t been ready at all to see her. He knew in theory what he wanted to say, how he could be cool, smart, courteous, perhaps even sexy.

But it was _her_ that was the unknown variable. He couldn’t predict her movements with certainty. He could guess, knowing her mannerisms, but she was also something of an enigma. It only made him want to get to know her better as a result, to open her up and examine her until he knew exactly how she ticked, where he could understand her just as well as he could a boat or a crane or a bulldozer engine.

 _No. No, you’re over thinking it, Zacharias._ There was no reason he couldn’t visit her, deliver bread, and then go. This was business, not… pleasure. His dream infringed on the corners of his mind and he took a deep breath in through his nose, out his mouth, centering himself as his years of knight training had taught. _Business. It’s just business._

He didn’t have to—no, he shouldn’t _expect_ to be invited in. Hand her the basket, smile, say goodbye. It would be far easier than asking her to dance, though lately his mind seemed to be seizing up whenever she looked at him. He either couldn’t get two proper words out in any semblance of order, or he said too much and then got into a heated argument over fountain placement, of all things. Maybe it was the tension; there was too much tension between them. Tension that needed to be gotten rid off, actively… quite actively…. _No! Focus!_

He swallowed hard, tucking the paper back into Mrs. Eclaire’s cloak. He knew where her home was, having snuck into it once back when he was trying to deduce whether or not she was, in fact, the Great Witch. At the time, he’d been more concerned with finding the truth than the nobility of his actions; he’d never, on any other charge besides witchcraft, consider breaking and entering in the name of the law.

Still, he thought he’d been working in the name of the Storyteller, doing something grand to help Labyrinthia. If she was a witch in as prominent a position she was in, that was truly a bad thing. It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d been killing her own kind in the name of anonymity, or that he’d be the new High Inquisitor if she was out of the way. He’d been accused of that later, hearing it whispered behind his back in certain circles, and it made him feel… dirty.

In any case, he hadn’t gotten a good confession from her and in the end, what had it mattered? She was a witch, but witches weren’t real. A paradox: his Eve was a brilliant paradox. ‘Twas fitting.

            Not to mention she’d been bending over backwards to help the town, and he’d all but accused her of stopping it from achieving true peace. All those witches had been innocent, frightened to death over their supposed powers and living in constant terror that they’d one day be uncovered. And he’d killed them mercilessly, in the name of justice. It frightened him to think that, given the right moral pushing, he might have done the same to her.

            He had to admit it: even when they were just coworkers, he had felt the first stirrings of _something_. He, of course, would have never acted on it; the High Inquisitor was too far above the common crowd to debase herself with a subordinate. He was certain that, should Mr. Layton and Mr. Wright not have come to shed light on the town, those feelings would have, over time, dwindled away into a single glowing ember. Something there, painful to touch, but easily doused.

            Would he have consigned her to the flames? Then, probably? Now? He’d have fought tooth and nail for her, climbing the fateful stairs in irons to take his judgment as a witches’ accomplice. He’d watched many a loved one—husbands, children, even a few mothers and fathers—make the same journey, unrepentant in their shame of hiding a witch from the Inquisition only because it was _their_ witch. He’d never been able to sympathize with them; oh, he could understand why, but now he felt the same crushing emotion at the thought of Eve in the cage.

            He came to Eldwitch field, crossing over the low footbridge and casting a doubtful eye on the rising waters of the river that fed the beautiful lake. He crested the ridge and stood, all at once, before her house. The windows were unshuttered, the light casting a warm, inviting glow on the muddy front walk. He was drawn to it as a moth to the flame, some instinctive need wanting to get out of the rain and closer to that fire he knew, from the chimney smoke, had to be blazing within.

            _Say hello, hand the basket, say goodbye. Greetings, Basket, Goodbye. Simple as that._ He rapped on the door, hearing her call something he couldn’t quite catch, and waited. Without trees to break the rain, it poured openly on him, extra dripping off the eaves of the manor catching his hood. He sighed and pushed the basket as far beneath the eaves as possible, keeping most of the rain off it and not bothering to throw his hood over his head. He was already wet; what difference would more water make?

            He squared his shoulders, putting on his ‘official Labyrinthian business’ face the same way he had at one hundred and fifteen other homes along the way. She opened the door, keeping the wood between her and the rain before peering around it. He lost the face, he knew he had, just at the sight of her. She was in plainclothes— _why wouldn’t she be? Of course she doesn’t wear her uniform in her own home, fool!—_ and her hair was in a looser, less formal braid that left wisps framing her face.

            “Zacharias?” Just his name, his _name_ , and all the words he’d been thinking of for hours left his mind in a puff of smoke. He gaped, knowing that he should say something, but unsure as to what. “What a pleasant surprise,” she continued slowly, eyeing the basket in confusion. “Are—I wasn’t expecting you today. Ms. Mailer gave me  your message.”

            “Y-yes! Yes, of course she did.” He laughed nervously, wishing himself under a rock, buried in mud, drowned in the river, _anywhere_ but here, floundering like a landed fish in front of her. “I’m delivering—I mean—this—bread.” He held out the basket with both hands, even as his soul withered and died. “Bread. Take it.” Her brow furrowed, and then one arched as she looked from his face to the basket and back. Then her eyes lit in comprehension.

            “My order, of course.” She breathed what sounded suspiciously like a sigh of relief and took the basket from him, at least saving him from the embarrassment of holding it out awkwardly for eternity like a greenhorn brandishing a sword for the first time. “Thank you for bringing it, but in all this?” She looked past him to the rain. “You didn’t have to.”

            “We don’t deliver stale bread!” he squawked, choking on his own words and coughing abruptly.

            “Of course, I didn’t mean to imply that at all. Thank you,” she repeated helplessly, staring at him as if expecting a second head to sprout from his neck. _Great, now she thinks I’ve gone mental._ He took a step back, trying to smile and salvage what he could from the encounter. _Kiss your chances with her goodbye, you brainless git._

“I’m, um… just,” he pointed behind him at the sodden road. “Lots of, er—lots of things to—don’t want to bother you.”

            “You’re leaving?” He stopped in his tracks at the question, the slight upwards tilt of the words suggesting… dismay?  _Yes. Wait. No? Do you want me to go? Can I stay? Give me a sign or something!_ To his astonishment she blushed, clutching the basket to her chest as she looked away from him, her eyes searching for something to settle on before finding his boots.  “I-I mean, you should at least come inside to dry off. It’s a long way back to the bakery, and I’m sure the rain… is… cold.” She finished on a near whisper, eyeing his boots so intently he thought she might bore a hole straight through to his toes.

            Somehow he found himself in the foyer before he knew it, the cloak peeled from his shoulders and his wet collar suddenly tight against his throat as she shut the door. It was warm, and it smelled of tea and flowers in here;  he hadn’t gone to the residential side of the house when sneaking in, and allowed himself to peer around nosily at the furnishings of the hall, the archway that led to a kitchen, a corner and the rise of a staircase visible just beyond.

            “Erm, I don’t want to trouble you,” he managed to say weakly, gaze falling to admire the way the pants clung to her hips as she bustled around, taking the wet cloak and directing him to put his muddy boots on a mat beside the door.

            “No trouble,” she replied, suddenly no-nonsense as she shook the cloak out. “I’ll hang this up to dry. Wait here.” She walked away, leaving him alone in the foyer, still puzzled as to how his three part plan had turned into him fumbling his way into her house. He saw himself in a hall mirror, his hair stuck in a thousand different directions, wet and slightly curled from the rain. He quickly tried to make it lay flat, or at least in some semblance of its usual effortless look, but it seemed dead-set on resembling a patch of brambles ready for a bird’s nest.

            “Here.” A towel was tossed lightly over his head and he jumped in surprise, having not heard her return without the usual click-click of heeled boots. “Dry yourself off and come with me.” He followed meekly, rubbing his hair and trying to peer into rooms as they passed. She showed him into a proper parlor, the kind he’d have expected in the uptown buildings near the Archives. “I’ll make some tea,” she announced, pointing towards the kitchen. “Please make yourself at home.”

            “Are you sure it’s no trouble? Don’t go making anything on my account,” he said quickly, even as his stomach grumbled a reminder that he’d missed both breakfast and lunch in his work. She hid a smile, but as always her eyes lit up in a way that made him melt into a dripping puddle where he stood. He gulped, trying and failing to look away from her.

            “What sort of hostess doesn’t offer her guest tea?” she asked wryly. He was shocked at how at-ease she seemed, but then he saw her hands clasp themselves behind her back and he knew she was fiddling with her nails. Being an Inquisitor, even a former one, made spotting such tells easier. But a tell of what? Her nervousness? Why was _she_ nervous? Did she have some design in mind?

            “Oh.”

            “You said you wanted to speak privately….” She trailed off, licking her lips. “I can’t think of anywhere more private than my home. If it still suits you to talk, of course.”           

            “O-of course!” Wasn’t this what he _just_ told himself he wouldn’t do? But here he was, acting as if he knew exactly what he wanted to say. “’Tis fine; we can talk now, if it suits _you_.”

            “Then I’ll return shortly with the tea.” By the Story, he was dead. He was dead in the water. _What do I do? What on earth do I say?_ He looked around the room, the dark Boiserie paneling on the walls reflecting the firelight. It was a well-furnished room, if not extravagant. He sat on the edge of the sofa, staring into the fiery depths of the grate and wondering how on earth he managed to get himself into these situations.

            When Eve returned, a tea tray and an extra candle in her grasp, he still didn’t know what he would do. If he were a crazy sort of man, a bold man with no fear or inhibition whatsoever, he’d just kiss her without speaking at all. But that, he knew, wouldn’t solve anything.

            She sat the tray on the coffee table, taking a seat on the other end of the sofa. He froze, sensing the dangerous distance of less-than-a-cushion between them; it would be too easy to reach over and touch her, or for her to come to his side, hiding one of those damning smiles as she crawled on top of him and—he took a drink of tea the minute she handed him a cup, scalding his throat and bringing tears to his eyes.

            “So.” She offered him a platter of biscuits, unaware of his mental suffering. “Talking.” He tried to muster the gumption to look her in the eyes, to keep a hold of his mental wellbeing while doing so, and coming out on top. He took another, less painful drink before putting his cup down, stuffing the whole biscuit into his mouth just to keep from actually speaking.

            _Why, after all these years, do you **now** have a problem with talking to her? _ he berated himself as he chewed. _It’s Eve, for the Story’s sake! She’s already had to question your manliness—_ he nearly choked again at the thought, and the memory connected with it— _why can’t you prove it, and leave her with no doubt as to what sort of man you really are? The man for her!_

            “Well, first of all, I’d like to apologize.” He managed to tear his gaze away from the fire as he swallowed, catching her eyes and trying his best to ignore how lovely they were, framed by dark lashes and watching him so patiently. “My behavior the other day was absolutely deplorable.” She blinked twice, bewilderment creeping across her face.

            “What?”

            “I… I don’t’ like to repeat it.” He sat straighter, prepared for any verbal scolding she might lay on him. “I declared that I would… do things… without your consent. ‘Twas not proper.”

            “Oh.” Was that a _laugh_ in her voice? He stared, watching with growing amazement as she turned away, biting her lip. “That.” _That? That?!_ She wasn’t angry with him? But she had said—he remembered again the glare, the way she leaned in towards him, challenging him to go through with it and make her regret ever going against him in the first place.

            “’Twas wrong, and I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be.” They both stopped, her mouth opening and closing before she quickly put her teacup beside his, hands pressed into her lap. “I meant… I took no offense by it.” He looked at her, eyes glimmering and reflecting the firelight. _You never could hide those eyes, could you?_ Even now, they were saying what she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—tell him aloud: _I wanted you to do it._ She looked down, fingers lacing and unlacing on her thighs.

            “Eve.” Did his voice have the same qualities as hers? She looked up, looking all the while like she was nearly afraid to let him see her full face. _Tell me. Tell me with your eyes._ As he stared, the pink reappeared along her cheeks, spreading down towards her neck.

            “Why—why did you ask me to dance?” She said it forcefully, as though this were a run of the mill interrogation down in the dungeons of the Courthouse. “Why me?” 

            “I don’t understand.” What sort of question was that? She shook her head.

            “You could have had any girl in town. Why _me_?” At first, he was just puzzled. _Why would I want any girl in town?_ After considering this and coming up with no fast answer, he decided to just focus on the question itself.

            “I thought that would be obvious.”

            “Well, it’s not.” She blushed harder, eyes narrowing. He frowned; _my intentions weren’t clear enough? I must have done something wrong._ He thought everyone understood what dancing on the Spring Festival meant. Was it because he hadn’t asked her on a date that night? That must be it. She was expecting a date and he’d failed to follow through, of course. If only he had Rouge’s boldness, or perhaps Espella’s ease of conversing! Even some of the Storyteller’s frankness might have come in use. But he was just himself, and he’d made a mess of things, as usual.

            “I apologize,” he said again, and she graced him with a wearied look. “Look, I—I find it hard to be forthright.” The weariness became disbelief. “With you,” he added, to keep it from being a complete falsehood. “You can think it’s ingrained in me, with you being my superior for so long, but that’s not it.”

            “What is, then?” He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “You’ve been acting odd, Zacharias.” _And here we go._ For the second time in one day, he considered the fastest way to get out of the place where he was and just _run_. “You single me out one moment, fight with me the next, ask me to talk and then when we’re talking, you can’t say a single thing!”

            “I—well—”

            “I just don’t understand.” _And you’ve screwed up again. Shouldn’t this be a world record by now, Barnham?_

            “I know!” She jumped in place at the force of the interjection. “I can’t help it! You drive me mad!” Her eyes widened.

            “Excuse me, I _what_?!”

            “You drive me mad.” There, he said it. The absolute truth. “I can’t help myself. And I can’t stand it anymore.” He moved even closer, watching how she leaned away from him and mentally punching himself. But the dam was open now. “When I’m near you I start… I starting thinking and I… I can’t stop.”

            “Thinking?” He nodded, the blood rushing in his ears. “A-about what?” Her voice was a whisper again, so close to the way his dream Eve spoke and yet so different, so unique that he could never, ever have imagined it.

            “About how—how I want—” They were really too close now, and his luck was already against him from the get-go, and he’d _just_ finished apologizing about how he’d never do anything to her without permission, but the need was there again, so strong that it nearly ate him alive, the urge to touch what was right there, what Espella couldn’t make vanish with a slam of the door—

            “Want _what_?” She knew, he knew she did, but she just delighted in making him say it. _Say I’m the Great Witch, say I drive you crazy, say you want to make me yours_ ; even now watching him from beneath her lashes, no longer shying away but more leaning back, giving him an opening, her eyes telling him all he needed to know and more.

_Do it._

            He didn’t think about her mouth being open when he moved in to kiss her; a jolt shot through him, head to toe and back again, but he only pulled away long enough to give her a chance to deny him, to say no if she didn’t want the same thing he did. But she did, she _did_ , the second kiss going unanswered only for her hands to finally make it to his face on the third one, those dainty fingers tracing his jaw and holding him still, right where she wanted him. _She wants me. She wants me._ His blood thrummed in time with the words, coursing through him as she finally let him breathe, though he’d have happily suffocated.

            “You don’t think—” She was breathless as well, her words ending on little pants that sent thrills through his body. He moved away, giving her space, ignoring the fierce desire to pin her down beneath him on the sofa and live out his dream until she _wasn’t_ thinking. “You don’t think I want things too?” she accused softly, wiping the corner of her mouth.

            “Like what?” _Tell me, tell me what you want from me, anything you want_ —he ached to hear it, to know what she desired.

            “To touch—” She stopped, hand rising to her forehead bashfully as she looked away.

            “Me?” he finished. He lay back on the sofa, mimicking her position invitingly. “You can.” She turned a dark red, hiding behind her fingers before clearing her throat loudly and turning away, a strange mixture of Darklaw censure and Eve shyness warring for dominance on her face.

            “I… I can’t.” She shook her head firmly. “I can’t.”

            “Eve.” He held out a hand to her. “You _can_. Nothing’s stopping you.” She watched him nervously, swallowing hard before reaching to take it. He drew her halfway before letting go, leaving her to climb the rest of the way. She faltered only a moment, crawling awkwardly on him; her foot slipped and she straddled his thigh, eyes going wide and hands fisting in his shirt. He knew that he couldn’t, not really, but he imagined that he felt the warmth of her there, hotter than the rest of her as she leaned forward and reached for the buttons to his shirt.

            “Zacharias….” _God, do whatever you want to me_. _Just keep saying my name like that._ He went limp, unable to believe that she was over him, on top of him, her cute fingers at the first button, and she _wanted_ to be there, _chose_ to be there, to want his body and—she’d thought about it, he realized. To say that she wanted things, she’d thought about him outside of this moment. He shivered, imaginging her (highly unlikely) fantasies, wondering if she dreamed of him, if she woke up upstairs and touched herself, thinking of him, wanting him….

            “No.” He blinked, still lost in his thoughts, and found her with her mouth pressed into a thin line above him.

            “No?”

            “No. This isn’t right.” She made no move to climb off of him, but she rebuttoned the top button and pressed her hands flat against his chest. “We don’t even know each other.” Now it was his turn to stare in disbelief.

            “You know me,” he protested lightly, but she shook her head even more firmly.

            “Not this way, I don’t.” She jerked her hands away suddenly, as if the touch of him burned her. “This isn’t… this is just….” _This is just lust._ She was afraid of it, of the intensity of it. She didn’t have to spell that out for him.

            _It’s not._ He knew it, almost as easily as he knew that breathing was good and agony bad. She wouldn’t just sleep with anyone, even if she didn’t realize it as fully. But perhaps they were moving too fast.

            “I want to do this the right way.” He sat up, shifting her carefully until she was more on his lap and less intimately aligned on his thigh. “And I know you do, too.” She nodded, fingers tangling themselves together again. “Eve, I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to. You know that.” She nodded again, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye before relaxing against him. “Let’s go on a date.”

            “When?” She turned to him now, mouth still somewhat swollen and hair more mussed than before. It took everything he had to keep from wrapping his arms around her, trapping her and burying his face to envelop himself. She reached up, tucking a stray piece of drying hair out of his eye before tracing the scar along his brow. He closed his eyes, reveling in the simple, innocent touch until it became less angelic, sliding over his closed lips before retreating.

            “Now.” She laughed.

            “I don’t think so.” She smirked. “I think… we need… to cool off.”

            “Sunday.”

            “ _This_ Sunday?” He ran his hand up her arm, making her shiver. _I can do that. I wonder what she’d do if—_ he cleared his throat. They did need to cool off, apparently. Or he did, at least.

            “Unless you have a prior engagement.” She pretended to think, eyes rolling to the ceiling as she pursed her lips.

            “No, I think I can manage to pencil you in on Sunday. If it’s not raining, how does a picnic sound?”

            “Perfect.” He would have loved to spend all evening here, just holding her on his lap, his hands becoming more bold in their wandering, but the clock began to strike the hour—all six of them. “Is that the time?!”

            “Six o’ clock, yes.” He swore under his breath.         

            “I promised Mrs. Eclaire and Espella I’d be home nearly an hour ago.” He squeezed her hand. “You distracted me.”

            “You distracted yourself,” she quipped, untangling his limbs from around her and climbing to her feet. “I knew what time it was all along.”

            “Only because you were facing the clock!” He stood as well, wanting nothing more than to stay, to have some excuse—the bridge was flooded, maybe. But even as he thought it, he thought of the women at the bakery and how they’d worry over him. He couldn’t do that to them, no matter how selfishly he wanted to—on second thought, perhaps spending the night would be tempting fate too much.

            “I’ll come about ten on Sunday? Will that suffice?”

            “That’s fine.” She left him at the threshold, going into the kitchen and returning with his nearly-dry cloak. “Here.” She draped it over him, tucking it in until he was snug and pulling the hood over his hair. “I’ll see you then.” He pressed his lips briefly to her forehead, not trusting himself with any other part of her face.

            “Goodbye.”

            “Be careful.” She waited until he was at the end of the path before closing the door, offering him a slight wave before shutting him back out in the rain. He stood for a moment, letting the water dance on his hot face and feeling the odd sensation of mixed disappointment and elation.

            “I can’t wait for Sunday.”


	6. A 'Real' Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnham gets to go on a real date! He's probably going to screw it up, somehow.

"And these—just a few—and, let's see, you'll want some of this, for sure, and I think some of this as well, two or three at the least, and—oh!" Mrs. Eclaire's hands, moving faster than he'd seen them do in a long time, snagged two jars of Espella's signature jam and stuffed them in the basket. "You can't go wrong with any of this!" she laughed, stuffing a handkerchief into the cracks and semi-covering the food spilling out of the basket's stretched seams.

"I'm not going on a three-day journey," Zacharias said weakly, looking at the overflowing abundance. "I'll return this evening."

"Tosh!" Mrs. Eclaire stopped, eyeing him severely. "A man doesn't show up empty-handed to a picnic, and the best way to a woman's heart is through her stomach."

"I thought it was a man's stomach," he said, still hesitant to provoke her in such a state. She had energy to spare, and even with a date he wasn't entirely safe from a thorough smack on the head for impertinence.

"Any stomach," she answered contritely, giving the handkerchief an extra tuck. " _Everyone_ likes food. Why, if you learn to bake as well as I do, you'll have her in the palm of your hand."

 _I should have kept my mouth shut_ , he thought with an internal sigh, allowing the baker to go about her business in preparing his 'offering'. Of course he'd acted before thinking things through, boasting about needing the day off because he had a date. And with two women like Mrs. Eclaire and Espella, he wasn't going to bed without telling them who, and when, and where. He'd expected their delight, but not their  _help_ , with everything from what he would wear to the gifts he was expected—no, obligated—to bring to Eve's house as thanks for her graciously accepting his offer.  _Was it clear that she was lowering her standards for me? Or is this a staple of every date? I think I'll never understand women._

"Sir Barnham!" Espella dashed into the bakery, breathing heavily with her dress filled and bunched up to her thighs. Mrs. Eclaire put out a hand to stop her.

"Good gracious! Look at your hem… and your boots!" Espella looked obediently, unconcerned that she was dripping mud from the knees down. "Where've you been all morning?"

"I went out to get these." She brandished an armful of flowers, roots still intact and dripping.

"Thrift?" Mrs. Eclaire wrinkled her nose. "What on earth do you want them for?"

"It's not for  _me_. I brought them for you, Sir Barnham." She arched a brow. "You can't think of going on a date without a bouquet."

"Of thrift?" Mrs. Eclaire repeated, pursing her lips. "Child, of all the things!"

"Not just thrift, Aunt Patty!" Espella began to sift through the contents of her makeshift pocket. "I've got some kingcups, and milkmaids, a little wild carrot, but the piece de resistance: honeysuckle!"

"In a bouquet!?" The baker threw up her hands. "First a baker, now a florist. What can't this girl do?" she grunted, shaking her head as she turned to stoke the oven. Espella ignored her, taking a stalk of the fragrant flower and pressing it to her nose, breathing deeply before humming in contentment.

"Give me a minute and I'll tie them up for you with some ribbon," she ordered, pointing for Barnham to stay put before running upstairs, feet pounding on the creaking wood. Mrs. Eclaire shook her head once more, clucking.

"I wish I had gotten a 'hold of her before fifteen," she muttered, beginning to knead the dough with such force that it seemed she'd taken a leaf from the knight's book. "She's as wild as a tomcat, when she ought to be settling down some."

"I suppose she's a little energetic," he agreed, but Mrs. Eclaire gave a scornful 'ha!' in answer.

"Energetic? No, that doesn't  _begin_ to cover it!" She grunted as she lifted a jug full of water onto the counter. "Her father should be keeping a tighter hold on her, but he's off doing Lord-knows-what. It's up to me to try and get some sense into her before it's too late."

"Here!" Proving her guardian's point by skipping the bottom step and landing lightly on the bakery floor, she presented Barnham with an amateur bouquet of wildflowers tied with a red ribbon he recognized from the cat toy she kept on her bed. "Now, let's see." She looked him over, closing one eye as she circled him. "You've shaved, and you've bathed, and you're wearing the clothes I picked out for you…. There's not much else we can do for your appearance."

"Do I look bad!?" He sputtered, cheeks flaming as he tugged on the collar of the shirt she'd forced him in. He was used to the loose fabric of his tunic, even preferring to leave the top buttons of his shirts undone so that the collar didn't suffocate him. But she'd insisted that he button this one all the way, even though it was merely a casual date and not some formal affair.

"Not at all," Mrs. Eclaire assured him, patting his arm and smoothing down the crumpled elbow of one sleeve. "You clean up well." She smiled up at him, patting his cheek with her mitten.

"Just remember, don't be nervous." Espella stood before him, hands fisted as she excitedly gestured.

"Remember your manners," Mrs. Eclaire chimed in.

"Compliment her!"

"Smile."

"Say something like, 'These flowers are a small token, but they pale in comparison to thy charms.'!"

"Offer to clean up after you eat."

"Woo her with your voice!"

"And most importantly…" Mrs. Eclaire squinted at him warningly, wagging one finger even through her oven mitt, " _behave yourself_." He gulped.

"A-aye, of course." He clutched the flowers until his fingers hurt, trying not to shake in his (polished) shoes.

"Have fun!" Without further ado, he was unceremoniously pushed out of the bakery, Espella waving at him with a smug grin. He managed a small, shaky smile before turning and heading towards the gates. Turning the corner, he paused, mouth tight, and then popped open his collar, turning his sleeves up to his elbows.  _I might as well be comfortable._

The Wood seemed more cheerful this morning, with the sun beaming down through the wet leaves, the canopy glittering as birds flitted from branch to branch. The mud, so daunting a test yesterday, had dried some and was easier to avoid without the blinding rain. The air smelled of earth and life and spring, loamy and fresh.

He came across the cart, still stuck in the mud, and stopped long enough to yank it out and make sure nothing had been busted by his fruitless efforts the day before. Everything seemed fine and he placed the basket and bouquet under the cloth still draped across the interior, dragging it behind him as he passed the Shade's cove and made his way uphill.

A crisp breeze greeted him at its summit, and he stopped to take in deep breaths of the fresh air. The grasses, dried in the midmorning sun, waved merrily. The river churned, its banks wider from the rain, choppily flowing towards the wall now in the distance. And dispersed through it all, petals floating up in eddies and waving on long, thin, vibrant stalks, were the red flowers.

He crossed the bridge carefully, noting the way that the water lapped at the boards with full intention to wash it away. He maneuvered the cart carefully, not wanting to have to explain to Mrs. Eclaire why her expensive cart was lost in the waters and would probably end up in the moat, in pieces.

Walking through the last copse of trees, he turned the corner to see the house, sitting in the midst of the lake. In the right light, viewed through the mist, it probably seemed an oppressive, towering structure that loomed over the valley, the eye motifs reminding all who saw that its owner watched over everything in the 'world'—on the island, at least. But it seemed to him to be both stately and quaint, a mix of Labyrinthian architecture and a different sort of style that he recognized as a vague, foggy picture in his mind labeled 'Elizabethan'.

He left the cart at the stables and crossed the boards to the front walk, watching the lake lap at the swampy shoreline, waves dancing in the breeze. Eve's house really was its own world, wrapped on all sides by dense trees: an island in and of itself. Petals floated on the surface of the water, spinning lazily and submerging, or serving as makeshift obstacles for the pondskaters flying over the surface.

 _Okay._ He knocked on the door, running a hand through his hair and clearing his throat. The smell of the flowers, aromatic as they were, only heightened his nervousness. Surely he could do better this time, right? He didn't have to shove the flowers in her face the same way he had the basket yesterday. The women's advice came back to him;  _just say hello, compliment her, hand her the flowers, be courteous, behave yourself…._

"Good morning! The—" He stopped short, not seeing anyone over the flowers he held out even though the door had opened. Lowering them slightly, he saw the shocked, slightly amused face of Jean Greyerl standing there, her hand at her chin. "M-M-Ms. Greyerl, excuse me!" he fumbled the bouquet, turning crimson as he tried to backpedal out of her way. "I didn't—I wasn't—"

"You were expecting Lady Belduke," the young woman finished for him, somehow calm while he was in a state of disarray. "I'm sorry if I surprised you, Inquisitor Barnham." She seemed to forget that he wasn't any such thing anymore.

"Nay, not at all." He managed to recover himself, clearing his throat before holding the flowers loosely at his side. "Eve isn't ill, is she?" He looked Jean carefully, searching for pockets filled with medicaments or any tools. It was probably none of his business  _why_ the alchemist's protégé was here; most likely, Eve had asked for some poultice or brew.

"No, she's well." Jean's hands reached up to stroke her hair nervously. "I merely stopped by to deliver some items that belonged to the late Sir Belduke. My mother found them in a crawlspace, and I thought that Lady Darklaw might want them… he was her father, after all." She looked both saddened and slightly envious of the admission.

"Ah, I see." He paused, not sure how to respond. Would 'I'm sorry' be applicable here?

"She's very kind, allowing me to stay in his home with my family while studying his works. I'm grateful to her, truly." She colored before looking back up with a smile. "Although I wouldn't have dared intrude upon any prior appointment had I known, Sir Barnham."

"Ah, no! 'Tis no intrusion, I'm actually early." He again waved away her apologies. Jean was a good girl, a bit quiet and shrewd in the right light, but first-rate. He wondered, though, if she might confide in Ms. Mailer that he'd been seen here today, dressed in plainclothes and bearing gifts for a certain former High Inquisitor. Why should he care? They'd danced, after all. This was an official date, and at the most it would paint him as a proper gentleman who knew how to romance a date. If one could call it that.

"Well, if you were expected, I might chance being forward to invite you inside on her behalf… to free up your hands, if nothing else." She opened the door wider, habitually going down into a bow as he passed through.

"Thank you. Is she upstairs?" He didn't see any sign of her in the foyer, nor did he hear her in one of the few branching rooms. Jean nodded.

"Yes. Will you please excuse me? I do have to be getting back to my practice. I'm sure I have a line by now, waiting for their daily doses. And Mr. Emeer…." She trailed off with a sigh. "Yes, I should be getting back."

"Oh… of course."

"Please give her my regards, and beg my pardon for making such a hasty exit." Bowing again, Jean backed out the door and shut it. He decided, after a moment's pondering, that she had been just as embarrassed as he, and probably didn't want to intrude any further than she thought she already had.  _She's polite, and she's got a level head on her shoulders. It's more than you can say about young ladies her age nowadays,_ he thought to himself, thinking about both the courier and Espella.

He stood in front of the mirror, flattening his hair and forcing his collar to lay subdued against his shirt. Despite Mrs. Eclaire's approval, he hoped that he looked presentable.  _Remember, you have to behave yourself,_ he thought as he preened.  _You're not some slobbering, groping animal; you're a man of knightly armor and a lady like herself deserves only the best, most polite, civilized conversation. She wants to go about this the right way, so it's best to just wait until she's ready. You're a gentleman; you're a knight, a top-tier knight at that, you're—_

"Zacharias? I didn't realize you were here. Is Jean gone?" He turned quickly, so caught up in his mental prep work that he didn't hear her on the stairs. He took one good look at her and gulped.

_You're in big trouble._

"S-She left!" He knew he was staring, that he ought to stop, or to say something at the very least. Where were those compliments? His mouth was too dry; nothing could come out other than a soft breath.  _By the Story, if I can't control myself around her for five minutes!_

She wore her new dress, though her hair was still braided in a loose, reserved plait. She had a white blouse beneath the revealing clothing buttoned up to her neck, a purple ribbon that matched the accenting of the dress tied neatly beneath the collar. Even with these touches, clearly in the name of modesty, he found things to admire and covet. The soft curve of her waist, the rise of her bust, accented by stays, her legs… legs! Last night he dreamed of touching them without a barrier between his fingers and her soft skin; today, that might be a reality.

_No! You don't hold her_ _**hand** _ _unless she bids you to, knave!_

"She had other patients," he managed to croak. "She said to excuse her."

"Oh. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. She did mention being in a hurry." They stood together, both of them suddenly interested in something else, anything else, as the silence grew.

"Ah! Um… here!" He shoved the flowers in her general direction, grateful for something to do with his hands and mentally making a note to thank Espella later.

"For me?" She asked, and he barely had time to decide who else he could have meant other than her before she took them. At least in  _that_ he couldn't fail, although his stiff fingers seemed to wait an eternity to wrench themselves from around the ribbon. He rubbed his hand against his pants, willing blood flow back into the white-knuckled digits. "Thank you, they're lovely." She bent her head, hiding her face in the bouquet as she breathed deeply. "Oh! Honeysuckle? How… unique."

"It was Espella's idea!" he said quickly, not sure if unique was good or bad in this situation. She blinked at him, eyes wide, and then bit her lip in a poor attempt to hide her laugh. "I mean… she helped… I…."  _Nothing's going right today, it seems. Blarg._

 _"_ No, it's fine. You didn't have to bring me anything." She took another, more deliberate sniff. "I'm surprisingly… flattered." Her cheeks turned the same pink hue as some of the flowers, and he again felt the sudden urge to touch, to hold.  _No. Can't._

"I brought food as well." He fumbled with the basket. "For the picnic, I mean." She lifted a corner of the handkerchief to peer inside at the cornucopia Mrs. Eclaire had packed.

"Oh, you even packed dessert?" Her voice was slight awe, most likely at the array of foods crammed in such a small space. She tucked the cloth back before giving him a wry smile he knew all too well. "Let's hope it's better than the last time you brought me something sweet." For a moment, he was more stupefied by that smirk than anything else. Then, when her smile faltered, he realized she was making a joke.

"Ah! Y-yes, well…. I didn't bake these, so they should be of perfect quality!" He laughed, a little too loudly, but his terrible joke seemed to break some of the nervous tension between them. She shook her head, motioning for him to wait.

"I'll go upstairs and get a blanket. The place I want to show you is probably still wet from the rain; it doesn't get much sunshine."

"As you like," he answered, but she was already retreating with her flowers. He groaned, rubbing his face and mentally kicking himself. He was nervous and that made  _her_ nervous, even though neither of them ought to be nervous by now. It wasn't as though this was a blind date or even one where they didn't know each other well. He  _knew_ her, knew her moods, her likes and dislikes, her opinions on the town, the people, the island in general. He could know her  _better_ , of course, but he was still trying too hard to impress someone who, if she wasn't impressed with him by this point, would never be.

Had he always been this way? He tried, for the first time, to really think about his old self, about any old relationships he had before Project Labyrinthia. He came up with nothing, other than the vague understanding that he  _had_ had a girl before. That he'd even slept with some, though none must have left much of a mark if he couldn't recall names or faces. He doubted that, had he been hypnotized after meeting Eve, he could ever forget a face as beautiful as hers.

But it didn't matter. He couldn't think of a girl before the project, and knighthood—then the position of Inquisitor—had taken up most of his time as a citizen of the town. Even now, before seriously considering Eve, he'd focused his time and energy into baking. He hadn't even  _looked_ at a girl for— well, ages it seemed.  _No wonder I act so odd around her… Zacharias Barnham, you are not just deprived. You are_ _ **depraved**_ _._

"Hey." She leaned back over the banister, and he wished even harder that she hadn't chosen the blouse. It solidified his mental chastisement, and he barely kept a blush from his face. "I need some help," she admitted with a huff. "I can't reach the quilt I want. Can you help me get it from the closet?"

"Of course." He wasn't new to this; Espella and Mrs. Eclaire were always asking him to help them get things from high shelves in the basement or even in the bakery, where one pesky top shelf was prone to fall if tried from below rather than above. Being tall certainly had its benefits, he mused as he followed her up the stairs and through a door.

However, he hadn't counted seeing the object of his affection's bedroom as one of those perks.

He stopped in the threshold, eyes wide as he looked around in a blind panic.  _Bed. Room?_ His heart thundered wildly; he'd thought she had meant a linen closet, or even a bathroom nook. Not… her bedroom closet. The same closet that undoubtedly held her clothing, as well as who knows  _what_ other hidden treasures.

"Are you alright?"

"U-uh— aye! I just, erm… felt a sudden chill, 'tis all."

"It's the air. I have a draft up here." She pointed to the window, where a thick tapestry with the Labyrinthian coat of arms had been pulled to the side to allow sunlight during the day. "The quilt's in here… give me a moment to make a better path."

"Take your time." He managed to unstick his feet, stumbling forward into no man's land. He tried to keep his eyes on the closet door, slightly ajar with strange sounds and scuffles coming from within. But it was hard, too hard, and he was weak whenever it came to her. He gazed around, half nervous and half exhilarated, as though he were a green youth in his first tavern. Anything he saw would be burned into his subconscious with a flame much stronger than hellfire, most undoubtedly helping to fuel his immoral dreams.

Her bed, military-straight bedclothes pulled tightly and neatly over the frame, tucked beneath the ticking with two fluffed pillows resting at the carved wooden headboard. Her dressing table, covered with various bottles and brushes, cryptic clues to her daily routine. He started at the sight of the High Inquisitor's uniform, brushed and ready for action, on a dressmaker's stand in the corner next to a full length mirror.

A bookshelf beneath the window, both bottom shelves filled to the brim while the top held a variety of knickknacks: a stuffed doll, a carved cat, a glass bird, a wooden miniature storybook opened to Sleeping Beauty. Childlike, yet poignant.

A cedar chest at the food of the bed, covered in a moth-eaten, yet still beautiful crochet throw. Two small end tables, the farther holding an electric lamp and a flashing alarm clock, the nearer a half-burned candlestick and a book, cover side down.  _Eve must be a fan of reading before bed._ He promptly steered his vile thoughts from bedtime Eve, instead indulging in his curiosity and carefully flipping the book without a sound. He was surprised to find it soft and flimsy, not unlike the pamphlets devoured by the lay folk in lieu of thick, heavy tomes that required extensive deciphering.

 _Mercenary Boy?_ The title was odd, to say the least. But what held his attention wasn't the bold title, but instead the cover itself. Instead of being an embossed cover or—even more like the tomes—no front at all, there was a portrait painted on the front of the book. A man, highly undressed—no, an understatement, for on further inspection this knave was entirely  _nude_. And he was holding a woman who, while not naked, was very well on her way to being so, her tanned skin bared against the white of the snow-covered branches they leaned against. The woman's fingers were tangled in the man's black locks, his head bent as though to kiss her neck, or lower. It was clear they were both in the throes of passion.

 _W-w-who was commissioned to create such a work!?_ This was no portrait master he knew, at least! The court illustrators in Labyrinthia would never dare draw such debased, raunchy…  _What sort of text is this?_ There was a bookmark hanging from the top cover—dare he open it?  _Do I want to know what Eve is reading about, in her own bed? 'Tis a breach of privacy. I shouldn't._ Yet his hand was already slipping towards the cover, carefully separating the thin, fragile pages.

" _You think that I won't throw you out, just because your father's rich?" Edward held the door open, his dark eyes flaming. Serenity pursed her lips, tossing her golden curls._

" _You wouldn't dare do that to a lady!" she cried, batting her thick, dark lashes._

" _Oui, mademoiselle, but_ _ **you**_ _are no lady!"_

His brow furrowed, and he turned another few pages until he reached the bookmark.  _What sort of drivel is this?_

_His broad hands found her stays, unloosing them so that the fabric of her corset sagged, her generous bust spilling into the cold air. She covered them with her soft hands, holding back a shiver as he brought his hands to her face. He explored her like a blind man might, as though discovering her for the first time._

" _Kiss me, cherie."_

" _I can't! Papa forbade it!" He laughed hollowly._

" _Papa doesn't have to know." She blushed, turning her head as she let her hands fall from her breast. He bent his head, licking over the—_

Warning bells ringing in his head, he slammed the book shut with more force than he should've, hurrying to flip it over again so that she might not know the extent of his prying.  _That's—that's a—he was—!_ He felt on fire, rubbing a hand over his face as he glanced furtively at the bookshelf.  _Savage Desire, Summer Swain, The Pirate's Boon—how many are there in all the world? Masters of Men, Kitten's Got Claws, Texas Belle… What is a Texas?!_

He could hardly imagine that women enjoyed reading that sort of smut; it was more the type of thing he could see passed around the garrison, giggled at by the pages and squires who were still too young to know a real woman's touch, but old enough to realize what happened before children were born. Then again, he thought with a sigh, it wasn't too hard to see Mrs. Eclaire or Espella reading something of this nature. But Eve? Demure, prim, ladylike Eve?  _Maybe she's not so ladylike_ , the darker side of his nature hissed with glee.

 _No! I will not think of her as anything less!_ He turned his back firmly on the damning evidence, crossing his arms. Until she proved otherwise, he would see her as nothing more than a gorgeous woman of virtue, too angelic to lower herself to his filthy ways. All she lacked were wings and a halo. He eyed the bed.  _Look, admire how neatly she does it, not at all like your messy bed at home. A true model of the perfect English gentlewoman._

 _True, but imagine her_ _ **in**_ _the bed._ Try as he might to stop them, the images rolled through his mind like marchers in the Parade. Eve, in a silken nightgown that fell to her ankles—no, her knees—no, upper thighs, definitely upper thighs, because  _she_  would wear it without imagining a sexier appeal to the thin, slippery cloth. Lying in bed, the electric light to harsh, the candlelight casting a soft glow over her features, teeth nibbling at her lip as she turned a page, eyes darkening as she read the lustful words printed so uniformly from end to end. Her knees drawing closer to her chest as she bent over the page, gown riding up to show—what did she wear beneath? Did she bother with underclothes when it came to sleepwear?

No matter what happened today, he was guaranteed a less-than-restful night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword:
> 
> I think the worst romance novel line I ever read in my life was ‘her body wept its feminine tears of desire’. (looks into the camera like The Office) 
> 
> Also, I know it didn’t end here before. I told you it was going to be different now. Fight me. (please don’t)


	7. The Glade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler Alert: they don't eat a bite.

            Eve had never noticed how nice it was just to _be_ with someone before.

            She led the way, picking the slippery banks of the lake as she traced the path to her spot. She had found it by accident, having taken a wrong turn in the forest once in her youth; its knowledge was a coveted secret, to the point that even her father hadn’t known its whereabouts. It was her haven, a place where her father, Mr. Cantabella, even the Shades couldn’t find her. A part of her had wanted to keep it that way from Barnham as well, but it was overridden by the strangest stirrings of _want_.

            She wanted to be alone with him here, in her special place where time meant nothing. No one would bother them, or even know where they were. The women of the bakery, the Storyteller, the knights—they all could be forgotten. It could just be the two of them. That was what she wanted most of all, what she couldn’t stop thinking about after that rainy afternoon.

            The lakeshore was marshy, old irrigation lines from the time before its existence as well as a few small branches that fed into it from the main river helping to keep the land damp, if not outright muddy. She was used to it, knowing all the good footholds and how to get over particularly tricky spots without falling into the water. Still, she went slower than usual, often turning to make sure her companion wasn’t in danger of ruining his nice outfit. It was hard enough to look at him, unused to seeing him with his shirt buttoned up and tucked in, highlighting the tapering of his waist and stretching across his broad chest, his sleeves rolled up to show muscular forearms. He looked oddly professional in a way she’d never seen before, like he belonged in some business ad with a suit jacket thrown casually over his shoulder. She was afraid she liked it a little too much.

            “This way.” She pointed to a deer path in the forest, barely distinguishable from the rest of the brush.  He nodded and she turned into the trees, pressing forward with her usual authority. She knew the way like the back of her hand, eyes picking out old landmarks and new dangers from the still wet ground. Thorns plucked at the hem of her dress, but they weren’t abundant in this part of the wood and she was able to avoid them easily.

            She heard him behind her, lagging in the denser shrubbery and often stopping to shift the basket and quilt to keep them out of the thicker brush. She pressed ahead, knowing he would follow, raising her eyes to look at the sun streaming through the leaves, droplets gleaming and dancing in the movement from their foray into the untouched wood.

            She reached the clearing well before him and stopped to look around, habitually making sure that there were no signs of activity, of anyone finding her private area. Everything looked in order; it was a little overgrown, but that was because she’d been too preoccupied to visit lately. It was as pristine a place as ever, a perfect oasis of nature in an otherwise wild wood.

            One of the branches bent here on its way back to the river, the broad island rocks forming a small natural waterfall that fell into a clear, rippling pool. More slabs made a shallow precipice that stretched over the pool, covered in a soft green moss that—when not dampened with rainwater—made a wonderful bed. The trees surrounding the bend were young ones, no larger around than a man’s wrist and grouped so closely that no one could peer through the trees without coming within a line of direct sight.  There were wildflower clusters and waving wheatgrass, the only sounds the soft roar of the waterfall and the twittering of birds in the trees all around.

            “Whoa.” She turned to see she was finally joined, Barnham standing in place and looking around at the clearing with wide eyes. “I never knew a place like this existed in all of Labyrinthia,” he said in an awed voice, walking over to peer into the bottom of the clear pool.

            “I’d like to keep it that way,” she answered briskly, taking the quilt from him. It sounded harsh, and she quickly cleared her throat to add, “I mean… just between us.” He nodded eagerly.

            “I’d be honored to share this secret with you.” She turned to spread the quilt over the moss, feeling her cheeks redden at his words. He always made the simplest things sound like something so… over the top. And he was entirely sincere about it, as well. It was almost too much.

            “Here.” She sat down, motioning for him to do the same. The mist from the waterfall rose beside her, covering her skin in cool droplets that helped to bring the heat from her face; it lasted just long enough for him to plop down beside her, close enough that she could lean against him if she so chose, and her blush returned tenfold.

            “S-shall we eat?” He sounded nervous, busying himself with the contents of the wicker basket and bringing out a seemingly endless amount of baked goods. There was more than enough for two people; they could have fed a garrison full of hungry knights, and had some left over for the next day. Sandwiches, pies, breads, pastries, jars of jam and containers of imported water, all coming out of a basket that seemed too small to be able to hold it.

            “I doubt we’ll be able to finish that,” she said hesitantly, staring at the growing spread filling up the quilt in front of them, spilling onto the moss. “And I know how Mrs. Eclaire is about leftovers.” She had seen the straightforward woman’s rule on leftover food firsthand at the bakery a good handful of times, not mentioning Espella’s harried whispers about not saying anything to condemn herself. Apparently, the baker was notorious for shoving copious amounts of bread on anyone who claimed to be able to eat it, willing or not.

            “Then it’s only fair that you be allowed to keep any leftovers.” He sat the final jar of preserves—boysenberry, by Espella’s crooked handwriting—on the last empty corner of the quilt and leaned back, tucking his hands under his crossed legs. “I can’t take them back to the bakery, and ‘tis fresh, so it should keep for a while at least.”

            “That sounds fine.” Neither of them reached for the food. “Mrs. Eclaire means well.”

            “That she does.” He chewed his lower lip, casting sidelong glances at her. “Sometimes she can be fastidious, but ‘tis all done with loving intention.”

            “It’s proof of how much she cares.” She kept her hands in her lap, picking at her cuticles. “Her enthusiasm for the bakery, keeping everyone well fed and healthy; it gives her a sense of self-worth.”  

            “That’s a very cold way of looking at it,” he replied bluntly. A fly buzzed near one of the meat pies and he shooed it away before tugging self-consciously at his collar.

            “I… you’re right.” She picked at a stray thread. “It’s how my father would have said it.”

            “The alchemist.” He said it as though he still didn’t quite believe the revelation. “I never asked, but: you must have been close to him.” She looked down, feeling the same odd cocktail of childish affection, exasperation, and guilt that always left a lump in her throat at the mere mention of her father.

            “Once,” she admitted softly. “We, um… we had a row. I don’t even remember what it was about now,” she continued, the words pouring out of her like a dam broken. “It was something insignificant, but he moved to live in his workshop and we didn’t talk for the longest time. Hurt pride, I suppose. And then he—well, you know the rest.”

            “Oh.”

            “He tried to send me a letter one time, about a month before….” She sat up, swallowing hard, but the lump only seemed to grow. “I never opened it. I threw it into the fireplace.” Her eyes burned at the admission, and she realized that she’d never told anyone. No one, aside from Lettie Mailer, her father, and herself, had known about the letter. It was one of her biggest regrets in life, terrible in the fact that she could never go back and right it. “If I’d replied… or just _read_ it… then maybe….”

            “Forgive me.” She looked up at him in surprise. He shifted uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t have brought it up; I’ve upset you.”

            “No, no.” She cleared her throat, hearing the ragged edge of tears in the words. “I’ve never had anyone to talk to about it before. I… Espella can listen, but she doesn’t understand.” She couldn’t stop the twinge of envy, or the rush of guilt that followed. “She was lucky enough to get the chance I didn’t; she made things right with her father.”

            “I—perhaps ‘tis not my place to say this, as I don’t remember my parents at all.” He licked his lips. “But I remember that trial like ‘twas yesterday.” He blushed. “Because I had lost twice in a row. I don’t’ think that’s ever happened before. But I remember that Jean read the letter aloud, to the entire Courtroom.” He paused. “Were you there?”

            “No, I was out with the Shades. I didn’t expect _that_ trial to take such a turn.”  She shook her head. “I was actually on your side; as proficient an attorney Mr. Wright is, I thought he’d just gotten lucky.” 

            “Jean read the letter aloud. To everyone. And I remember exactly what it said.” He leaned in, only slightly. “Even at the end, Sir Belduke was thinking of you. He said that you were his first concern. He was worried about leaving you all by yourself.”

            “I’m not by myself, though—” She stopped, realizing his meaning even as he nodded enthusiastically.

            “Right! You’ve got Espella, and Mrs. Eclaire, and even Mr. Cantabella. You’re not alone at all.”

            “I think you’re missing someone,” she chuckled. Of all the people, he didn’t include himself?

            “Huh? Oh, Jean, of course.”

            “No, I meant you.” He flushed.

            “O-oh, I was merely speaking of friends,” he amended quickly, looking away.

            “You’re not my friend?” His shoulders slumped, grin becoming more nervous and less genuine.

            “We’re merely friends?” She didn’t know that such a tiny voice could come out of such a loud mouth.

            “Zacharias… we’re on a date, and you still feel the need to ask that question?” He turned even darker, fidgeting in place.

            “You could… you could always change your mind,” he noted quietly. “I-I mean, I wouldn’t blame you—things haven’t gone so smoothly thus far, and—and—” He fell into puzzled silence, nose crinkling as he tried to sort out his feelings. _Like that’ll ever happen, you big oaf._ She wanted to say it aloud, with the same offhanded ease that Espella would have used, but was afraid of him taking it the wrong way. The last thing she needed was him thinking that she was only on a date to mock him.

            “Trust me, if I decide to change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.” _And that was any better?!_ Her brain screeched at her, astounded at the lack of filter on her words today. She fumbled, trying to think of something to add to appease him more, but to her surprise he seemed to brighten up.

            “At the very least, I’d like a performance review and a formal letter of recommendation. Perhaps a severance package.”

            “This isn’t a job!” She frowned, even though she knew he was only teasing. “What, do you expect me to highlight your extensive abilities for the next woman?”

            “If you find them to your liking.” He smirked. “I’m very proficient.”

            “At _what_?” she scoffed. The corner of one brow twitched, smirk widening as he inclined his head just enough; he stared at her in such a way that his meaning _couldn’t_ be mistaken.

            “Shall I demonstrate?” His voice lowered to a rumble; her heart tripped over itself trying to increase its speed, sputtering before thudding loudly in her ears. Every thought she’d had since he’d kissed her came rushing back, her fingers fisting in her skirts as her mouth went dry.

            She made a little sound, not sharp enough to be a gasp but not an inhale either; he seemed to come back to himself with a start. He sat up, arms waving wildly as he scooted back to what he declared a safe distance, putting space between them as fast as the quilt’s friction would allow.

            “I-I-I didn’t mean—I wasn’t suggesting—I shou- _aah!_ ” He moved _too_ far back and wavered, legs scrambling for some hold on the smooth quilt. With wide eyes, he tipped back and she felt his fingers brush her hand, too late as he flipped heels over head off the rock and into the pool below. A moment of panic had her scrambling as well, off balance and afraid that she’d follow him down before lunging and managing to save the boysenberry preserves— at least— from making the descent. A good quarter of the food wasn’t as lucky, however, vanishing over the side and splashing into the water below.

            She leaned over the precipice, afraid of what she’d find; she’d never been in the pool, and despite its clear waters she had no true idea of its depth. She let out a sigh of relief as she saw her date climbing to his feet in the waist-high water, holding his arms out as he stared down at his sodden clothing. He looked up at her, a good two arm’s lengths above him, and let out a little groan before running his hands through his wet hair. She wasn’t sure which of them blushed harder, her face hot enough that sticking it into the waterfall sounded wonderful. 

“Here, let me help you up,” she called, reaching both arms down and hoping that he wasn’t too heavy to lift. He shook his head, motioning for her to move back before jumping and grabbing hold of the ledge. She fell back as he pulled himself up, arms straining through his drenched shirt as he rolled his legs back onto the rock. “Are you alright?” He was still red from his hair to his collar, even the tips of his ears flaming in his mortification.

            “I’m fine.” He wiped uselessly at his face, unable to even look in her direction.

            “Good.” She reached out without thinking, pushing more of his bangs off his forehead. His hair was dark when wet, falling down around his face in a manner that was different, but not ugly. “Now, what did you go and do a fool thing like _that_ for?”

            “I, er—you wanted to take things slow.” He sniffed, still rubbing at his nose with equally wet hands. “I, uh—ugh.”

            “Just because—of all the things!” she laughed, unable to help herself. _That_ was why? He didn’t join her in her mirth, and even managed a relatively cute pout despite looking half-drowned. “You can flirt with me, you know. I’m not afraid of you.”

            “F-flirt!?” he choked. “That wasn’t flirting, that was… something else!”

            “What’s flirting, if that wasn’t it?” He looked startled at her question, but thought a moment before answering.

            “Milady, you’re looking rather lovely this evening.” He smiled with a wink. “The firelight brings out the color of your eyes.”

            “I’m glad you didn’t think to try that one in Court,” she sighed after a minute of heavy silence. “I think you should stick with the ‘something else’.” He blinked, brow creasing. _Guess I have to prove it._ She moved in with a coy smile. “Flirting, Sir Barnham, is, ‘You should take off that wet shirt before you catch a chill.’” He leaned back onto his hands, retreating as she came closer than they’d been before. Their eyes met, his staring steadily into hers without any clue as to his thoughts. After a moment he cleared his throat, nodding down at his chest.

            “Can you undo the buttons? My hands are wet; they’ll slip.” The tension rose between them, hot and thick until she was sure the water ought to have been steaming off his clothing. She rose onto her knees, reaching out with barely trembling hands. She fumbled at the top button, feeling his eyes on her and growing hotter. It didn’t help that his shirt was already translucent, white fabric sticking to his muscles and showing shadowy edges of scars and skin.

            “Here.” His hands covered hers, warm and damp, curling over her fingers as they stopped fighting the button. She shuffled a little closer, his legs automatically sliding apart to compensate even as he made a warning sound in his throat. “Be careful, or your dress will get wet.” _Don’t care_. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, though, not with the heat pressing down on her from every direction and closing up her throat.

            His hands slowly pressed themselves together, her fingers caught up between them, and he lifted them from his chest as carefully as if they’d been some sort of fragile insect. Cupping them, he inspected her hands silently before bending his head and running his lips over her knuckles, then her fingertips. She shivered, the barest touch of his mouth sending sparks up her arms; she flexed them under his ministrations, turning them over and allowing him to kiss the palms as well before running them along either side of his jaw to tilt his head.

            This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? It was just him and her, and though it hadn’t happened anywhere near as easily as she’d originally hoped… well, here they were now, right? She wanted his mouth on more than just her hands, as noble and chivalrous an act as it might be—not that it _felt_ chivalrous, the way his parted lips had tickled her.

 She tugged his head towards her gently, forcing him to sit up until he was once again nearly taller than she was, despite her being hunched up on her knees. She ignored the dampness on her long sleeves as she rested her forearms on his shoulder, her hands boldly reaching to play with the wet hair at the nape of his neck. She felt _him_ shiver when she traced a finger down his spine, and smiled at the thought that the cold water had nothing to do with that chill. The pressure was nearly unbearable, her mind begging for her, or him, _someone_ to move, to do something other than stare.

His eyes were dilated, lips parted as he watched her. She felt strangely loose and free, the normally reserved part of her silent, or at least holding her embarrassment at bay. She was still shy of touching another person like this, but it was a shyness that only caused her to move slowly, rather then deter her entirely. She moved one of her hands, wanting to feel his mouth again but not wanting to ask him to kiss her. She instead ran her finger lightly along his lower lip, just feeling him, breath hitching when his hand circled her wrist, holding her still.

“Is it alright to… to kiss you?” he mumbled around her finger, the words tickling. She nodded, more relieved that he wanted the same thing she did. He leaned in, head tilting as he slid his fingers up from her wrist to lace through hers. In the distance she heard a noise, the sound filtering through her thoughts without meaning until, slower than usual, she recognized it’s significance. _Thunder?_ She looked up, thwarting him without meaning to so that he kissed the underside of her chin instead. He sat back, confused, and then looked up as well when a louder, closer peal rumbled.

“Another storm?” she muttered, looking around at the food. They hadn’t even had their picnic: not that either of them were thinking much about the meal. “We better pack up. It’s going to rain.” She could see— now that she was paying attention— that the sky was growing increasingly cloudy.

“What does it matter?” he huffed. “I’m already wet.” She glared at him, lips pursed.

“Yes, let’s kiss in a lightning storm, next to water and surrounded by trees. At least we’ll go out of this world together.” He frowned, but reluctantly let her hand go as she turned for the basket.

“’Twould be an interesting obituary.”


End file.
